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THE 


MISTRESS  OF  THE  MANSE 


DR.  J.  G.  HOLLAND'S  WRITINGS. 


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THE  MISTRESS  OF  THE  MANSE,    .       . 
PURITAN'S  GUEST  AND  OTHER  POKMS,     . 
TITCOMB'S  LETTERS  TO  YOUNG  PEOPLE, 

GOLD-FOIL, 

LESSONS  IN  LIFE,  ..... 
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CONCERNING  THE  JONBS  FAMILY,       . 
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COMPLETE    POETICAL   WRITINGS. 
With  illustrations  by  Reinhart,  Griswold,  and  Mary  Hallock 
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THE 


MISTRESS  OF  THE    MANSE 


A  POEM 


BY 

J.    G.    HOLLAND 


NEW   YORK 

CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS 
1897 


COPYRIGHT  BY 

CHARLES   SCRIBNER  &  CO. 
1867 


COPYRIGHT  BY 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 
1881 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

PRELUDE, i 

LOVE'S  EXPERIMENTS, .6 

SELIM  AND  NOURMAHAL,      .  60 

LOVE'S  PHILOSOPHIES, 80 

LOVE'S  CONSUMMATIONS,      .......  224 


THE 

MISTRESS  OF  THE  MANSE, 


PRELUDE. 

IN  all  the  crowded  Universe 

There  is  but  one  stupendous  Word ; 

And  huge  and  rough,  or  trimmed  and  terse, 

Its  fragments  build  and  undergird 

The  songs  and  stories  we  rehearse. 

All  forms  that  human  language  tries, 
All  phrases  of  the  books  and  schools, 
And  all  the  words  of  great  and  wise 
Are  weak  attempts,  or  clumsy  tools, 
To  speak  the  Word  that  speech  defies. 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse. 

That  Word,  ineffable  to  man, 

Though  whispered  through  a  thousand  years, 

Or  thundered  in  the  fiery  van 

Of  all  the  myriad-wheeling  spheres, 

Remains  unvoiced  since  time  began. 


There  is  no  tree  that  rears  its  crest, 
No  fern  or  flower  that  cleaves  the  sod, 
Nor  bird  that  sings  above  its  nest, 
But  tries  to  speak  this  Word  of  God, 
And  dies  when  it  has  done  its  best. 


Like  marble  in  the  mountain  mine, 
White  at  its  heart  as  on  its  face, 
We  chip  its  crystals,  nor  divine 
The  forms  of  majesty  and  grace 
That  wait  within  the  central  shrine ! 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse. 

And  this  Great  Word,  all  words  above, 
Including,  yet  defying  all — 
Soft  as  the  crooning  of  a  dove, 
And  stvong  as  the  Archangel's  call — 
Means  only  this — means  only  Love ! 


It  represents  Creation's  whole, — 
All  space,  all  worlds,  all  living  things  : 
And  Love  endows  them  with  a  soul, — 
The  bright  Shechinah,  throned  in  wings 
Behind  the  Temple's  Sacred  Scroll! 


The  love  of  home  and  native  land, 
The  love  that  springs  in  son  and  sire, 
And  that  which  welds  the  heart  and  hand 
Of  man  and  maiden  in  its  fire, 
Are  signs  by  which  we  understand 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse. 

The  love  whose  passion  shook  The  Cross ; 
And  all  those  loves  that,  deep  and  broad, 
Make  princely  gain  of  piteous  loss, 
Reveal  the  love  that  lives  in  God 
As  in  a  blood-illumined  gloss. 


II. 

Mayhap  the  humble  tale  I  tell 
Of  the  great  passion  which  absorbs 
The  gentle  hearts  that  round  me  dwell, 
And  wings  the  world,  and  holds  the  orbs, 
And  strews  the  skies  with  asphodel, 

Will  yield  some  letters  of  the  Word 
Which  still  unspoken  must  remain  ; 
And  bear  to  bosoms,  swelled  and  stirred, 
Some  meanings  of  the  tender  pain 
Which  they  have  neither  seen  nor  heard 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse. 

My  Philip,  bred  in  Northern  climes, 
Preached  the  great  Word  I  strive  to  sing ; 
And  in  the  grand  and  golden  times — 
Aflame  with  love — he  went  to  bring 
His  Mildred— subject  of  my  rhymes — 


From  her  far  home  on  Southern  plains  ; 
And  what  they  shared  of  bale  and  bliss, 
And  what  their  losses,  what  their  gains, 
The  loving  eye  that  readeth  this 
May  gather,  if  it  take  the  pains. 


LOVE'S   EXPERIMENTS. 


THE  group  of  ladies  at  the  gate 
Dissolved,  and  tripped  in  haste  away ; 
And  then,  with  backward  tilting  freight, 
The  old  stage  coach,  in  dusty  gray, 
Stopped  ;   and  the  pastor  and  his  mate 


Stepped  forth,  and  passed  the  waiting  door, 
And  closed  it  on  the  gazing  street. 
"Oh,  Philip!"     She  could  say  no  more; 
"  Oh,  Mildred  !     You're  at  home,  my  sweet,- 
The  old  life  closed  :   the  new  before  1 " 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse. 

"  Dinah,  the  mistress  !  "  •  And  the  maid, 

Grown  motherly  with  household  care 

And  loving  service,  and  arrayed 

In  homely  neatness,  took  the  pair 

Of  small  gloved  hands  held  out,  and  paid 

Her  low  obeisance  ;    then — "  this  way  !  " 
And  when  she  brought  her  forth  at  last, 
To  him  who  grudged  the  long  delay, 
He  found  the  soil  of  travel  cast, 
And  Mildred  fresh  and  fair  as  May. 


II. 

"  This  is  our  little  Manse,"  he  said ; 
"  Now  look  with  both  your  curious  eyes 
Around,  beneath,  and  overhead, 
And,  seeing  all  things,  realize 
That  they  are  ours,  and  we  are  wed  t 


8  The  Mistress  of  the  Manse. 

"  Walk  through  these  freshly  garnished  rooms 
These  halls  of  oak  and  tinted  pearl ; 
And  mark  the  cups  of  clover-blooms, 
Cut  fresh,  to  greet  the  stranger-girl, 
By  those  whose  courtesy  illumes 


"The  house  beyond  the  grace  of  flowers  1 
They  greet  you,  mantled  by  my  name, 
And  rain  their  tenderness  in  showers  ; 
Responding  to  the  double  claim 
Of  love  no  longer  mine,  but  ours. 


"  This  is  our  parlor,  plain  and  sweet : 
Your  hands  shall  make  it  half  divine. 
That  wide,  old-fashioned  window-seat, 
Beneath  your  touch  shall  grow  a  shrine  ; 
And  every  nooklet  and  retreat, 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse. 

"  And  every  barren  ledge  and  shelf, 
Shall  wear  a  charm  beyond  the  boon 
Of  treasure-bearing  drift,  or  delf, 
Or  dreams  that  flutter  from  the  moon ; 
For  it  shall  blossom  with  yourself. 


"This  is  my  study:   here,  alone, 
Prayerful  to  Him  whom  I  adore, 
And  gathering  speech  to  make  him  known, 
Your  far,  quick  footsteps  on  the  floor, 
Your  breezy  robe,  your  cheerful  tone, 


"As  through  our  pretty  home  you  speed 
The  busy  ministries  of  life, 
Shall  stir  me  swifter  than  my  creed, 
And  be  more  musical,  dear  wife, 

Than  sweep  of  harp,  or  pipe  of  reed. 
i* 


IO  The  Mistress  of  the  Manse. 

"  Here  is  our  fairy  banquet  hall! 

See  how  it  opens  to  the  East, 

And  looks  through  elms  !    The  board  is  small. 

But  what  it  bears  shall  be  a  feast 

At  morn,  at  noon,  and  evenfall. 


"  There  will  you  sit  in  girlish  grace, 
And  catch  the  sunrise  in  your  hair ; 
And  looking  at  you,  from  my  place, 
I  shall  behold  more  sweet  and  fair, 
The  morning,  in  your  smiling  face ! 


"And  guests  shall  come,  and  guests  shall  go, 
And  break  with  us  our  daily  bread  ; 
And  sometime — sometime — do  you  know? 
I  hope  that — dearest,  lift  your  head, 
And  let  me  speak  it,  soft  and  low! 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse.  II 

"The  grass  is  sweeter  than  the  ground: 
Can  love  be  finer  than  its  flowers  ? 
Oh,  sometime — sometime — in  the  round 
Of  coming  years,  this  board  of  ours 
I  hope  may  blossom  and  abound 


"  With  shining  curls,  and  laughing  eyes, 
And  pleasant  jests  and  merry  words, 
And  questions  full  of  life's  surprise, 
And  light  and  music,  when  the  birds 
Have  left  us  to  our  gloomy  skies. 


— "  Now  mount  with  me  the  old  oak  stair ! 
This  is  your  chamber — pink  and  blue ! 
They  asked  the  color  of  your  hair, 
And  draped  and  fitted  all  for  you, 
My  fine  brunette,  with  tasteful  care. 


12  The  Mistress  of  the  Manse. 

"  The  linen  is  as  white  as  snow ; 
The  flowers  are  set  on  every  sconce  ; 
And  e'en  the  cushioned  pin-heads  show 
Your  formal  "  welcome  "  for  the  nonce, 
To  the  sweet  home  their  hands  bestow. 


"  Declining  to  the  river's  marge, 
See,  from  this  window,  how  the  turf 
Runs  with  a  thousand  flowers  in  charge 
To  meet  the  silver  feet  of  surf 
That  fly  from  every  passing  barge ! 


"Along  that  reach  of  liquid  light 
Flies  Commerce  with  her  countless  keels ; 
There  the  chained  Titan  in  his  might 
Turns  slowly  round  the  groaning  wheels 
That  drag  her  burdens,  day  and  night. 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse.  13 

"  And  now  the  red  sun  flings  his  kiss 
Across  its  waves  from  finger-tips 
That  pause,  and  grudgingly  dismiss 
The  one  he  loves  to  closer  lips, 
And  Moonlight's  quiet  hour  of  bliss. 

"And  here  comes  Dinah  with  the  steam, 

Of  evening  cups  and  evening  food, 

And  burning  berries  quenched  with  cream, 

And  ministry  of  homely  good 

That  proves,  my  dear,  we  do  not  dream.** 


III. 

He  heard  the  long-drawn  organ-peal 

Within  his  chapel  call  to  prayer ; 

And,  answering  with  ready  zeal, 

He  breathed  o'er  Mildred's  weary  chair 

These  words,  and  sealed  them  with  a  seal : 


14  The  Mistress  of  the  Manse. 

"  Only  a  little  hour  I  take  ; — 
But  know  that  I  am  wholly  yours, 
And  that  a  thousand  bosoms  ache 
To  tell  you,  that  while  life  endures, 
You  shall  be  cherished  for  my  sake. 

"  So  throw  your  heart's  door  open  wide, 

And  take  in  mine  as  well  as  me ; 

Let  no  poor  creature  be  denied 

The  £race  of  tender  courtesy 

And  kindness  from  the  pastor's  bride." 


IV. 

The  moon  came  up  the  summer  sky  : 
"  Oh,  happy  moon  !  "  the  lady  said  ; 
"  Men  love  thee  for  thyself,  but  I 
Am  loved  because  my  life  is  wed 
To  one  whose  message,  pure  and  high, 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse.  15 

"  Has  spread  the  world's  evangel  far, 

And  thrown  such  radiance  through  the  dark 

That  men  behold  him  as  a  star, 

And  in  his  gracious  coming  mark 

How  beautiful  his  footsteps  are. 


"  Oh,  Moon !   dost  thou  take  all  thy  light 
From  the  great  sun  so  lately  gone  ? 
Are  there  not  shapes  upon  thy  white, 
That  mould  and  make  his  sheen  thy  own, 
And  charms  that  soften  to  the  sight 


"  The  ardor  of  his  blinding  blaze  ? 
Who  loves  thee  that  thou  art  the  sun's  ? 
Who  does  not  give  thee  sweetest  praise 
Among  the  troop  of  shining  ones 
That  sweep  along  the  heavenly  ways  ? 


1 6  The  Mistress  of  the  Manse. 

"Yet  still  within  the  holy  place 

The  altar  sanctifies  the  gift ! 

Poor,  precious  gift,  that  begs  for  grace ! 

Oh,  towering  altar !    that  doth  lift 

The  gift  so  high,  that,  in  its  face, 


"  It  bears  no  beauty  to  the  thought 
Of  those  who  round  the  altar  stand ! 
Poor,  precious  gift,  that  goes  for  naught 
From  willing  heart  and  ready  hand, 
And  wins  no  favor  unbesought! 


"The  stars  are  whiter  for  the  blue; 
The  sky  is  deeper  for  the  stars  ; 
They  give  and  take  in  commerce  true, 
And  lend  their  beauty  to  the  cars 
Of  downy  dusk,  that  all  night  through 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse.  IJ 

"  Sweep  o'er  the  void  on  silver  wheels ; 
Yet  neither  starry  sky  nor  cloud 
Is  loved  the  less  that  it  reveals 
A  beauty  all  its  own,  endowed 
By  all  the  wealth  its  beauty  steals. 


"  Am  I  a  dew-drop  in  a  rose, 
With  no  significance  apart  ? 
Must  I  but  sparkle  in  repose 
Close  to  its  folded,  fragrant  heart, 
Its  peerless  beauty  to  disclose? 


"  Would  I  not  toil  to  win  his  bread, 
Or  give  him  all  I  have  to  give  ? 
Would  I  not  die  in  his  sweet  stead, 
And  die  in  joy  ?     But  I  must  live ; 
And,  living,  I  must  still  be  fed 


1 8  The  Mistress  of  the  Manse. 

"  On  love  that  comes  in  love's  own  right. 
They  must  not  pet  or  pamper  me — 
These  who  rejoice  beneath  his  light — 
Or  pity  him,  that  I  can  be 
So  precious  in  his  princely  sight." 


With  swiftest  wings,  through  heart  and  brain, 

The  little  hour  unheeded  flew ; 

And  when,  behind  the  blazoned  stain 

Of  saintly  vestures,  red  and  blue, 

The  lights  on  rose  and  window-pane 


Within  the  chapel  slowly  died, 

And  figures  muffled  by  the  moon 

Went  shuffling  home  on  either  side — 

One  seeking  her — she  said  :     "  How  soon!  " 

And  the  glad  pastor  kissed  his  bride. 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse.  19 


v. 

The  bright  night  brightened  into  dawn  ; 
The  shadows  down  the  mountain  passed ; 
And  tree  and  shrub  and  sloping  lawn, 
With  bending,  beaded  beauty  glassed 
In  myriad  suns  the  sun  that  shone  ! 

The  robin  fed  her  nested  young ; 
The  swallows  bickered  'neath  the  eaves ; 
The  hang-bird  in  her  hammock  swung, 
And,  tilting  high  among  the  leaves, 
Her  red  mate  sang  alone,  or  flung 

The  dew-drops  on  her  lifted  head ; 
While  on  the  grasses,  white  and  far, 
The  tents  of  fairy  hosts  were  spread 
That,  scared  before  the  morning  star, 
Had  left  their  reeking  camp,  and  fled. 


2O  The  Mistress  of  the  Manse. 

The  pigeon  preened  his  opal  breast  ; 
And  o'er  the  meads  the  bobolink, 
With  vexed  perplexity  confessed 
His  tinkling  gutturals  in  a  kink, 
Or  giggled  round  his  secret  nest. 


With  dizzy  wings  and  dainty  craft, 

In  green  and  gold,  the  humming  bird 

Dashed  here  and  there,  and  touched  and  quaffed 

The  honey-dew,  then  flashed  and  whirred, 

And  vanished  like  the  feathered  shaft 


That  glitters  from  a  random  bow. 
The  flies  were  buzzing  in  the  sun, 
The  bees  were  busy  in  the  snow 
Of  lilies,  and  the  spider  spun, 
And  waited  for  his  prey  below. 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse.  21 

With  sail  aloft  and  sail  adown, 

And  motion  neither  slow  nor  swift, 

With  dark-brown  hull  and  shadow  brown, 

Half-way  between  two  skies  adrift, 

The  barque  went  dreaming  toward  the  town. 


'Twas  Sunday  in  the  silent  street, 
And  Sunday  in  the  silent  sky. 
The  peace  of  God  came  down  to  meet 
The  throng  that  laid  their  labor  by, 
And  rested  weary  hands  and  feet. 


Ah,  sweet  the  scene  which  caught  the  glance 
Of  eyes  that  with  the  morning  woke, 
And,  from  their  window  in  the  manse, 
Looked  up  through  sprays  of  elm  and  oak 
Into  the  sky's  serene  expanse, 


22  The  Mistress  of  the  Manse. 

And  off  upon  the  distant  wood, 
And  down  into  the  garden's  close, 
And  over,  where  his  chapel  stood 
In  ivy,  reaching  to  its  rose, 
Waiting  the  Sunday  multitude! 


VI. 

A  red  rose  in  her  raven  hair 

Whose  curls  were  held  by  plait  and  braid. 

The  bride  swept  down  the  oaken  stair, 

And  mantled  like  a  bashful  maid, 

As,  seated  in  the  waiting  chair, 

Behind  the  fragrant  urn,  she  poured 
The  nectar  of  the  morn's  repast ; 
But  fairer  lady,  fonder  lord, 
In  happier  hall  ne'er  broke  their  fast 
With  sweeter  bread,  at  prouder  board. 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse.  23 

And  then  they  rose  with  common  will, 

And  sought  the  parlor,  cool  and  dim. 

"Sing,  love!"  he  said.     "The  birds  grow  still, 

And  wait  with  me  to  hear  your  hymn." 

She  swept  a  low,  preluding  thrill — 


A  spray  of  sound — across  the  keys 
That  felt  her  fingers  for  the  first ; 
And  then,  from  simplest  cadences, 
A  reverent  melody  she  nursed, 
And  gave  it  voice  in  words  like  these  : 


"  From  full  forgetfulness  of  pain, 
From  joy  to  opening  joy  again, 
With  bird  and  flower,  and  hill  and  tree, 
We  lift  our  eyes  and  hands  to  thee, 
To  greet  thee,  Father,  Lord  of  Heaven  and  Earth ! 


24  The  Mistress  of  the  Manse. 

11  That  thou  dost  bathe  our  souls  anew 
With  balm  of  light  and  heavenly  dew, 
And  smilest  in  our  upward  eyes 
From  the  far  blue  of  smiling  skies, 
We  bless  thee,  Father,  Lcrd  of  Heaven  and  Earth ; 


"  For  human  love  and  love  divine, 
For  love  of  ours  and  love  of  thine, 
For  heaven  on  earth  and  heaven  above — 
To  thee  and  us  twin  homes  of  love — 
We  thank  thee,  Father,  Lord  of  Heaven  and  Earth ! 


"  O  dove-like  wings,  so  wide  unfurled 
In  brooding  calm  above  the  world ! 
Waft  us  your  holy  peace,  and  raise 
The  incense  of  our  morning  praise 
Up  to  our  Father,  Lord  of  Heaven  and  Earth  ! " 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse.  25 

VII. 

Full  fleetly  sped  the  morning  hours; 

Then,  wide  upon  the  country  round 

A  tumult  of  melodious  powers 

In  tumult  of  melodious  sound 

Burst  forth  from  all  the  village  towers. 

With  blow  on  blow,  and  tone  on  tone, 
And  echoes  answering  everywhere — 
Like  bugles  from  the  mountains  blown — 
Each  sought  to  whelm  the  burdened  air, 
And  make  the  silence  all  its  own. 

In  broad,  sonorous,  silver  swells 
The  air  was  billowed  like  the  sea  ; 
And  listening  ears  were  listening  shells 
That  caught  the  Sabbath  minstrelsy, 
And  sang  it  with  the  singing  bells. 

2 


26  The  Mistress  of  the  Manse. 

The  billows  heaved,  the  billows  broke, 
The  first  wild  burst  went  down  amain ; 
The  music  fell  to  slower  stroke, 
And  in  a  rhythmic,  bold  refrain 
The  great  bells  to  each  other  spoke. 


Oh,  bravely  bronze  gave  forth  his  word, 
And  sharply  silver  made  reply, 
And  every  tower  and  turret  stirred 
With  sounding  breath  and  converse  high. 
Or  paused  with  waiting  ear  and  heard. 


And  long  they  talked,  as  friend  to  friend  ; 

Then  faltered  to  their  closing  toll, 

Whose  long,  monotonous  repetend, 

From  every  music-burdened  bowl 

Poured  the  last  drop,  and  brought  the  end ! 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse.  27 

VIII. 

The  chapel's  chime  fell  slow  and  soft 
And  throngs  slow-marching  to  its  knoll 
From  village  home  and  distant  croft, 
With  careful  feet  and  reverent  soul 
Pressed  toward  the  open  door,  but  oft 

Turned  curious  and  expectant  eyes 
Upon  the  Manse  that  stood  apart. 
There  in  her  quiet,  bridal  guise 
Fair  Mildred  sat  with  shrinking  heart ; 
While  Philip,  bold  and  over-wise, 

And  knowing  naught  of  woman's  ways, 
Smiled  at  her  fears,  and  could  not  guess 
How  one  so  armored  in  his  praise, 
And  strong  in  native  loveliness, 
Could  dread  to  meet  his  people's  gaze. 


28  The  Mistress  of  the  Manse. 

He  could  not  know  her  fine  alarm 
When  at  his  manly  side  she  stood, 
And,  leaning  faintly  on  his  arm— 
A  dainty  slip  of  womanhood — 
Walked  forth  where  every  girlish  charm 


Was  scanned  with  prying  gaze  and  glance, 
Among  the  slowly  moving  crowd 
That,  greedy  of  the  precious  chance, 
Read  furtively,  but  half  aloud, 
The  pages  of  their  new  romance. 


"  A  child  !  "     And  Mildred  caught  the  word. 
"  A  plaything  !  "     And  another  voice  : 
"  Fine  feathers,  and  a  Southern  bird  !  " 
And  still  one  more  :     "A  parson's  choice ! " 
And  trembling  Mildred  overheard. 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse.  29 

These  from  the  careless  or  the  dull — 
These  from  the  gossips  and  the  dolts — 
And  though  her  quickened  ear  might  cull 
From  out  their  whispered  thunderbolts 
A  "lovely!"  and  a  "beautiful!  " 


And  though  sweet  mother-faces  smiled, 
And  bows  were  given  with  friendly  grace, 
And  many  a  pleasant  little  child 
Sought  sympathy  within  her  face, 
Her  aching  heart  was  not  beguiled. 


She  did  not  see — she  only  felt — 

As  up  the  staring  aisle  she  walked — 

The  critic  glances,  coldly  dealt 

By  those  who  looked,  and  bent,  and  talked  : 

And,  even,  when  at  last  she  knelt 


3O  The  Mistress  of  the  Manse. 

Alone  within  the  pastor's  pew, 
And  prayed  for  self-forgetfulness 
With  deep  humility,  she  knew 
She  gave  her  figure  and  her  dress 
To  careful  eyes  with  closer  view. 


IX. 

At  length  she  raised  her  head,  and  tossed 
A  burden  from  her  heart  and  brain. 
She  would  have  love  at  any  cost 
Of  weary  toil  and  patient  pain, 
Of  rightful  ease  and  pleasure  lost ! 

They  could  not  love  her  for  his  sake  ; 
They  would  not,  and  her  heart  forgave. 
Why  should  a  woman  stoop  to  take 
The  poor  endowment  of  a  slave, 
And,  like  a  menial,  choose  to  make 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse.  31 

Her  master's  mantle  half  her  own  ? 

They  loved  her  least  who  loved  him  most ! 

They  envied  her  her  little  throne ! 

He  who  was  cherished  by  a  host 

Was  hers  by  gift,  and  hers  alone  ; 


And  she  would  prove  her  woman's  right 
To  hold  the  throne  to  which  the  king 
Had  called  her,  clothing  her  with  white ; 
And  never  would  she  show  her  ring 
To  win  a  loving  proselyte ! 


These  were  the  thoughts  and  this  the  strife 

That  through  her  kindling  spirit  swept, 

And  wrought  her  purposes  of  life  ; 

While  powers  that  waked  and  powers  that  slept 

Within  the  sweet  and  girlish  wife, 


32  The  Mistress  of  the  Manse. 

Sprang  into  energy  intense, 

At  touch  of  an  inspiring  chrism 

That  fell  on  her,  she  knew  not  whence, 

And  lifted  her  to  heroism 

Which  wrapped  her  wholly,  soul  and  sense. 


X. 

Meanwhile,  through  all  the  vaulted  space 

The  organ  sent  its  angels  out  ; 

And  up  and  down  the  holy  place 

They  fanned  the  cheeks  of  care  and  doubt. 

And  touched  each  worn  and  weary  face 

With  beauty  as  their  wings  went  by  : 
Then  sailed  afar  with  peaceful  sweep, 
And,  calling  heavenward  every  eye, 
Evanished  into  silence  deep — 
The  earth  forgotten  in  the  sky ! 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse.  33 

Then  by  the  sunlight  warmly  kissed, 
Far  up,  in  rainbow  glory  set, 
Rayed  round  with  gold  and  amethyst, 
She  saw  upon  the  great  rosette 
The  Saviour's  visage,  pale  and  trist 


"  Oh,  Crown  of  Thorns  !  "  she  softly  breathed ; 
"Oh,  precious  crown  of  love  divine! 
Oh,  brow  with  trickling  life  enwreathed ! 
Oh,  piercing  thorns  and  crimson  sign ! 
I  hold  you  mine  in  love  bequeathed. 


"  But  not  for  sake  of  these  or  thee! 
I  must  win  love  as  thou  hast  won. 
The  thorns  are  mine,  and  all  must  see, 
In  sacrifice,  and  service  done, 

The  loving  Lord  they  love  in  me." 
2* 


34  The  Mistress  of  the  Manse. 


XL 

Then,  through  a  large  and  golden  hour 
She  listened  to  the  golden  speech 
Of  one  who  held  the  priceless  dower 
Of  love  and  eloquence,  that  reach 
And  move  the  hearts  of  men  with  power. 

Ah!  poor  the  music  of  the  choir 

That  voiced  the  Psalter  after  him  ! 

And  strong  the  prayer  that,  touched  with  fire, 

Flamed  upward,  past  the  seraphim, 

And  wrapped  the  throne  of  his  desire  ! 

She  watched  and  heard  as  in  a  dream, 
When,  in  the  old,  familiar  ground 
Of  sacred  truth,  he  found  his  theme, 
And  led  it  forth,  until  it  wound 
Through  meadows  broad — a  swollen  stream 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse.  35 

That  flashed  and  eddied  in  the  light, 
And  fed  the  grasses  at  its  edge, 
Or  thundered  in  its  onward  might 
O'er  interposing  weir  and  ledge, 
And  left  them  hidden  in  the  white  ; 


Then  pressing  onward  to  the  eye, 

Grew  broader,  till  its  breadth  became 

A  solemn  river,  sweeping  by, 

That,  quick  with  ships  and  red  with  flame, 

Reached  far  away  and  kissed  the  sky ! 


Strong  men  were  moved  as  trees  are  bowed 
Before  a  swift  and  sounding  wind  ; 
And  sighs  were  long  and  sobs  were  loud, 
From  loving  saints  and  those  who  sinned, 
Among  the  deeply  listening  crowd. 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse. 


XII. 

And  Mildred,  in  the  whelming  tide 
Of  thought  and  feeling,  quite  forgot 
That  he  who  thus  had  magnified 
His  office,  held  a  common  lot 
With  her,  and  owned  her  as  his  bride. 

But  when,  at  length,  the  thought  returned 
That  she  was  his  in  plighted  truth, 
And  she  with  humbled  soul  discerned 
That,  though  her  youth  was  given  to  youth, 
And  love  by  love  was  fairly  earned, 

She  could  not  match  him,  wing-and-wing, 
Through  all  his  broad  and  lofty  range, 
And  thought  what  passing  years  might  bring- 
No  change  for  good,  but  only  change 
That  would  degrade  her  to  a  thing 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse.  37 

Of  homely  use  and  household  care, 
And  love  by  duty  basely  kept — 
She  bowed  her  head  upon  the  bare 
Cold  rail  that  hid  her  face,  and  wept, 
And  poured  her  passion  in  a  prayer. 


XIII. 

"  Oh,  Father,  Father !  "  thus  she  prayed  : 
"  Thou  know'st  the  priceless  boon  I  seek ! 
Before  my  life,  abashed,  dismayed, 
I  stand,  with  hopeless  hands  and  weak, 
Of  him  and  of  myself  afraid  ! 

"Teach  me  and  lead  me  where  to  find, 
Beyond  the  touch  of  hand  and  lip, 
That  vital  charm  of  heart  and  mind 
Which,  in  a  true  companionship, 
My  feebler  life  to  his  shall  bind  ? 


38  77**  Mistress  of  the  Manse. 

"  His  ladder  leans  upon  the  sun  ; 
\  cannot  climb  it  :   give  me  wings ! 
Grant  that  my  deeds,  divinely  done, 
May  be  appraised  divinest  things, 
Though  they  be  little,  every  one. 


"His  stride  is  strong;  his  steps  are  high 
May  not  my  deeds  be  little  stairs 
That,  counted  swift,  shall  keep  me  nigh, 
Till  at  the  summit,  unawares, 
We  stand  with  equal  foot  and  eye  ? 


"  If  further  down  toward  Nature's  heart 
His  root  is  struck,  commanding  springs 
In  whose  deep  life  I  have  no  part, 
Send  me,  on  recompensing  wings, 
The  rain  that  gathers  where  thou  art ! 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse.  39 

"  Oh,  give  me  vision  to  divine 

What  he  with  delving  hand  explores  ! 

Feed  me  with  flame  that  shall  refine 

To  finest  gold  the  rugged  ores 

His  strong  hands  gather  from  the  mine  ! 

"  So,  dearest  Father,  shall  no  sloth, 
Or  weakness  of  my  weaker  soul, 
Delay  him  in  his  kingly  growth, 
Or  hold  him  meanly  from  the  goal 
That  shines  with  guerdon  for  us  both." 


XIV. 

Then  all  arose  as  if  a  spell 

Had  been  dissolved  for  their  release, 

The  while  the  benediction  fell 

Which  breathed  the  gentle  Master's  peace 

On  afl  the  souls  that  loved  him  well. 


4O  The  Mistress  of  the  Manse. 

And  Philip,  coming  from  his  place, 
Like  Moses  from  the  mountain  pyre, 
Bore  on  his  brow  the  shining  grace 
Of  one  who,  in  the  cloud  and  fire, 
Had  met  his  Maker,  face  to  face. 


And  men  and  women,  young  and  old, 
Pressed  up  to  meet  him  as  he  came, 
And  children,  by  their  love  made  bold, 
Grasped  both  his  hands  and  spoke  his  name, 
And  in  their  simple  language  told 


Their  joy  to  see  his  face  once  more ; 
While  half  in  pleasure,  half  in  pain, 
His  bride  stood  waiting  at  her  door 
The  passage  of  the  friendly  train 
That  slowly  swept  the  crowded  floor. 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse.  41 

Half-bows  were  tendered  and  returned  ; 
And  welcomes  fell  from  lips  and  eyes ; 
But  in  her  heart  she  meekly  spurned 
The  love  that  came  in  love's  disguise 
Of  sympathy — the  love  unearned. 


XV. 

Then  out  beneath  the  noon-day  sun 
Of  the  old  Temple,  cool  and  dim, 
She  walked  beside  her  chosen  one, 
And  lost  her  loneliness  in  him ; 
But  hardly  was  her  walk  begun 

When,  straight  before  her  in  the  street, 
With  tender  shock  her  eye  descried 
A  little  child,  with  naked  feet 
And  scanty  dress,  that,  hollow-eyed, 
Looked  up  and  begged  for  bread  to  eat. 


4-2  The  Mistress  of  the  Manst. 

Nor  haughty  pride  nor  dainty  spleen 
Felt  with  her  heart  the  sickening  shock. 
She  took  the  hand  so  soiled  and  lean  ; 
And  silken  robe  and  ragged  frock 
Moved  side  by  side  across  the  green. 


She  looked  for  love,  and,  low  and  wild, 
She  found  it — looking,  too,  for  love ! 
So  in  each  other's  eyes  they  smiled, 
As,  dark  brown  hand  in  snowy  glove, 
The  bride  led  home  the  hungry  child. 


And  men  and  women  in  amaze 

Paused  in  their  homeward  steps  to  see 

The  bride  retreating  from  their  gaze, 

Clasped  hand  in  hand  with  misery ; 

Then  brushed  their  eyes,  and  went  their  ways. 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse.  4.? 

XVI. 

When  the  long  parley  found  a  close, 
And,  clean  and  kempt,  the  little  oaf — 
Disburdened  of  her  wants  and  woes, 
And  loaded  with  her  wheaten  loaf — 
Went  forth  to  minister  to  those 

Who  sent  her  on  her  bitter  quest, 

The  bride  stood  smiling  at  her  door, 

And  in  her  happiness  confessed 

That  she  had  found  a  friend  ;    nay,  more — 

Had  entertained  a  heavenly  guest. 

And  as  she  watched  her  down  the  street, 
Her  brow  grown  bright  with  sunny  thought, 
Her  heart  o'erfilled  with  something  sweet, 
She  knew  the  vagrant  child  had  brought 
The  blessing  of  the  Paraclete. 


44  The  Mistress  of  the  Manse, 

She  turned  from  out  the  blazing  noon, 
And  sought  her  chamber's  quiet  shade, 
Like  one  who  had  received  a  boon 
She  might  not  show,  but  which  essayed 
Expression  in  a  happy  croon. 

And  then,  outleaping  from  the  mesh 
Of  Memory's  net,  like  bird  or  bee, 
There  thrilled  her  spirit  and  her  flesh 
This  old  half-song,  half-rhapsody, 
That  sang,  or  said  itself,  afresh  : 


"  Poor  little  wafer  of  silver! 

More  precious  to  me  than  its  cost ! 
It  was  worn  of  both  image  and  legend. 
But  priceless  because  it  was  lost. 
My  chamber  I  carefully  swept ; 
I  hunted,  and  wondered,  and  wept ; 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse.  45 

And  I  found  it  at  last  with  a  cry  : 
Oh,  dear  little  treasure !   said  I  ; 
And  I  washed  it  with  tears  all  the  day : 
Then  I  kissed  it,  and  put  it  away. 

;  Poor  little  lamb  of  the  sheepfold ! 
Unlovely  and  feeble  it  grew ; 
But  it  wandered  away  to  the  mountains, 
And  was  fairer  the  further  it  flew. 
I  followed  with  hurrying  feet 
At  the  call  of  its  pitiful  bleat, 
And  precious,  with  wonderful  charms, 
I  caught  it  at  last  in  my  arms, 
And  bore  it  far  back  to  its  keep, 
And  kissed  it  and  put  it  to  sleep. 

Poor  little  vagrant  from  Heaven  ! 

It  wandered  away  from  the  fold, 

And  its  weakness  and  danger  endowed  it 

With  value  more  precious  than  gold. 


46  The  Mistress  of  the  Manse. 

Oh,  happy  the  day  when  it  came, 

And  my  heart  learned  its  beautiful  name ! 

Oh,  happy  the  hour  when  I  fed 

This  waif  of  the  angels  with  bread ! 

And  the  lamb  that  the  Shepherd  had  missed 

Was  sheltered  and  nourished  and  kissed  ! " 

XVII. 

To  Philip,  Mildred  was  a  child, 
Or  a  fair  angel,  to  be  kept 
From  all  things  earthly  undefiled,— 
Who  on  his  loving  bosom  slept, 
And  only  waked  to  be  beguiled 

From  loneliness  and  homely  care 
By  love's  unfailing  ministry. 
No  toil  of  his  was  she  to  share, 
No  burden  hers,  that  should  not  be 
Left  for  his  stronger  hands  to  bear. 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse.  47 

His  love  enwrapped  her  as  a  robe, 
Which  seemed,  by  its  supernal  charm, 
To  shield  from  every  poisoned  probe 
Of  earthly  pain  and  earthly  harm 
This  one  choice  creature  of  the  globe. 


The  love  he  bore  her  lifted  him 
Into  a  bright,  sweet  atmosphere 
That  filled  with  beauty  to  the  brim 
The  world  beneath  him,  far  and  near, 
And  stained  the  clouds  that  draped  its  rim. 


Toil  was  not  toil,  except  in  name ; 

Care  was  not  care,  but  only  means 

To  feed  with  holy  oil  the  flame 

That  warmed  her  soul,  and  lit  the  scenes 

Through  which  her  figure  went  and  came. 


48  The  Mistress  of  the  Manse. 

Her  smile  of  welcome  was  his  meed ; 
Her  presence  was  his  great  reward  ; 
He  questioned  sadly  if,  indeed, 
He  loved  more  loyally  his  Lord, 
Or  if  his  Lord  felt  greater  need. 


And  Mildred,  vexed,  misunderstood, 
Knew  all  his  love,  but  might  not  tell 
How  in  his  thought,  so  large  and  good, 
And  in  his  heart,  there  did  not  dwell 
The  measure  of  her  womanhood. 


She  knew  the  girlish  charm  would  fade ; 
She  knew  the  rapture  would  abate  ; 
That  years  would  follow  when  the  maid, 
Merged  in  the  matron,  and  sedate 
With  change,  and  sitting  in  the  shade 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse.  49 

Of  a  great  nature,  would  become 
As  poor  and  pitiful  a  thing 
As  an  old  idol,  and  as  dumb, — 
A  clog  upon  an  upward  wing, — 
A  value  stricken  from  the  sum 


Which  a  true  woman's  hand  would  raise 
To  mighty  numbers,  and  endow 
With  kingly  power  and  crowning  praise. 
She  must  be  mate  of  his ;    but  how  ? 
And,  dreaming  of  a  thousand  ways 


Her  hands  would  work,  her  feet  would  tread, 
She  thought  to  match  him  as  a  man ! 
His  books  should  be  her  daily  bread; 
She  would  run  swiftly  where  he  ran, 

And  follow  closely  where  he  led. 
3 


5O  The  Mistress  of  the  Manse. 

XVIII. 

Since  time  began,  the  perfect  day 
Has  robbed  the  morrow  of  its  wealth, 
And  squandered,  in  its  lavish  sway, 
The  balm  and  beauty  of  the  stealth, 
And  left  its  golden  throne  in  gray. 

So  when  the  Sunday  light  declined, 

A  cold  wind  sprang  and  shut  the  flowers  : 

Then  vagrant  voices,  undefined, 

Grew  louder  through  the  evening  hours, 

Till  the  old  chimney  howled  and  whined 

As  if  it  were  a  frightened  beast, 
That  witnessed  from  its  dizzy  post 
The  loathsome  forms  and  grewsome  feast 
And  hideous  mirth  of  ghoul  and  ghost, 
As  on  they  crowded  from  the  East. 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse.  51 

The  willow,  gathered  into  sheaves 

Of  scorpions  by  spectral  arms, 

Swung  to  and  fro,  and  whipped  the  eaves, 

And  filled  the  house  with  weird  alarms 

That  hissed  from  all  its  tortured  leaves. 


And  in  the  midnight  came  the  rain  ; — 

In  spiteful  needles  at  the  first ; 

But  soon  on  roof  and  window-pane 

The  slowly  gathered  fury  burst 

In  floods  that  came,  and  came  again, 


And  poured  their  roaring  burden  out. 

They  swept  along  the  sounding  street, 

Then  paused,  and  then  with  shriek  and  shout 

Hurtled  as  if  a  myriad  feet 

Had  joined  the  dread  and  deafening  rout. 


52  The  Mistress  of  the  Manse. 

But  ere  the  welcome  morning  broke, 
The  loud  wind  fell,  though  gray  and  chill 
The  drizzling  rain  and  drifting  smoke 
Drove  slowly  toward  the  westward  hill, 
Half  hidden  in  its  phantom  cloak. 

And  through  the  mist  a  clumsy  smack, 
Deep  loaded  with  her  clumsy  freight, 
With  shifting  boom  and  frequent   tack, 
Like  a  huge  ghost  that  wandered  late, 
Reeled  by  upon  her  devious  track. 


XIX. 

So  Mildred,  with  prophetic  ken, 
Saw  in  the  long  and  rainy  day 
The  dreaded  host  of  friendly  men 
And  friendly  women,  kept  away, 
And  time  for  love,  and  book,  and  pen. 


The  Mistress  of  the  Alanse.  53 

But  while  she  looked,  with  dreaming  eyes 
And  heart  content,  upon  the  scene, 
She  saw  a  stalwart  man  arise 
Where  the  wild  water  lashed  the  green, 
And  pause  a  breath,  to  signalize 


Some  one  beyond  her  stinted  view ; 
Then  turn  with  hurried  feet,  and  straight 
The  deep,  rain-burdened  grasses  through, 
And  through  the  manse's  open  gate, 
Pass  to  her  door.     At  once  she  knew 


That  some  faint  soul,  in  sad  extreme, 
Had  sent  for  succor  to  the  manse, 
And  knew  its  master  would  redeem 
To  sacred  use  the  circumstance 
That  made  such  havoc  of  her  scheme. 


54  The  Mistress  of  the  Manse, 


xx. 

She  saw  the  quiet  men  depart, 
She  saw  them  leave  the  river-side, 
She  saw  them  brave  with  sturdy  art 
The  surges  of  the  angry  tide, 
And  disappear  ;  the  while  her  heart 

Sank  down  in  dismal  loneliness. 

Then  came  her  vexing  thoughts  again  ; 

And  quick,  as  if  she  broke  duress 

Of  heavy  weariness  or  pain, 

She  sought  the  study's  dim  recess, 

Where  rank  on  rank,  against  the  wall, 
The  mighty  men  of  every  land 
Stood  mutely  waiting  for  the  call 
Of  him  who,  with  his  single  hand, 
Had  bravely  met  and  mastered  all. 


Mistress  of  the  Manse.  55 


The  gray  old  monarchs  of  the  pen 

Looked  down  with  calm,  benignant  gaze, 

And  Augustine  and  Origen 

And  Ansel  justified  the  ways  — 

The  wondrous  ways  —  of  God  with  men. 


Among  the  tall  hierophants 
Angelical  Aquinas  stood  ; 
While  Witsius  held  the  "  Covenants," 
And  Irenasus,  wise  and  good, 
Couched  low  his  silver-bearded  lance 


For  strife  with  heresy  and  schism, 
And  Turretin  with  lordly  nod 
Gave  system  to  the  dogmatism 
That  analyzed  the  thought  of  God 
As  light  is  painted  by  a  prism. 


56  The  Mistress  of  tJie  Manse. 

Great  Luther,  with  his  great  disputes, 
And  Calvin,  with  his  finished  scheme, 
And  Charnock,  with  his  "  Attributes," 
And  Taylor  with  his  poet's  dream 
Of  theologic  flowers  and  flutes, 


And  Thomas  Fuller,  old  and  quaint, 
And  Cudworth,  dry  with  dust  of  gold, 
And  South,  the  sharp  and  witty  saint, 
With  Howe  and  Owen — broad  and  bold — 
And  Leighton  still  without  the  taint 


Of  earth  upon  his  robe  of  white, 
Stood  side  by  side  with  Hobbes  and  Locke, 
And — braced  by  many  an  acolyte — 
With  Edwards  standing  on  his  rock, 
And  all  New  England's  men  of  might, 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse.  57 

Whose  gifts  and  offices  divine 
Had  crowned  her  with  a  kingly  crown, 
And  solemn  doctors  from  the  Rhine, 
With  Fichte,  Kant,  and  Hegel,  down 
Through  all  the  long  and  stately  line! 

As  Mildred  saw  the  awful  host, 

She  felt  within  no  motive  stir 

To  realize  her  girlish  boast, 

And  knew  they  held  no  more  for  her 

Than  if  each  volume  were  a  ghost. 


XXI. 

She  sat  in  Philip's  vacant  chair, 
And  pondered  long  her  doubtful  way ; 
And,  in  her  impotent  despair, 
Lifted  her  longing  eyes  to  pray, 
When  on  a  shelf,  far  up  and  bare, 


58  The  Mistress  of  the  Manse. 

She  saw  an  ancient  volume  lie  ; 

And  straight  her  rising  thought  was  checked. 

What  were  its  dubious  treasures  ?     Why 

Had  it  been  banished  from  respect, 

And  from  its  owner's  hand  and  eye  ? 


The  more  she  gazed,  the  stronger  grew 
The  wish  to  hold  it  in  her  hand. 
Strange  fancies  round  the  volume  flew, 
And  changed  the  dust  their  pinions  fanned 
To  atmospheres  of  red  and  blue, 


That  blent  in  purple  aureole, — 
As  if  a  lymph  of  sweetest  life 
Stood  warm  within  a  golden  bowl, 
Crowned  with  its  odor-cloud,  and  rife 
With  strength  and  solace  for  her  soul ! 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse.  59 

And  there  it  lay  beyond  her  arm, 
And  wrought  its  fine  and  wondrous  spell, 
With  all  its  hoard  of  good  or  harm, 
Till  curious  Mildred,  struggling  well, 
Surrendered  to  the  mighty  charm : 


The  steps  were  scaled  for  boon  or  bale, 
The  book  was  lifted  from  its  place, 
And,  bowing  to  the  fragrant  grail, 
She  drank  with  pleased  and  eager  face 
This  draught  from  off  an  Eastern  tale ; 


SELIM  AND  NOURMAHAL. 

SELIM,    the   haughty   Jehangir,   the   Conquerer   of  the 

Earth, 
With  royal  pomps  and  pageantries  and   rites  of  festal 

mirth 
Was  set   to  celebrate   the  day — the  white  day — of  his 

birth. 


His  red  pavilions,  stretching  wide,  crowned  all  witb 
globes  of  gold, 

And  tipped  with  pinnacles  of  fire  and  streamers  mani 
fold, 

Flamed  with  such  splendor  that  the  sun  at  noon 
looked  pale  and  cold  ! 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse.  61 

And  right  and   left,  along   the   plain,  far  as   the   eye 

could  gaze, 
His    nobles    and    retainers  who   were    tented    in    the 

<* 

blaze, 

Kept  revel  high  in  honor  of  that  day  of  all  the 
days. 

The    earth    was    spread,   the   walls  were    hung,   with 

silken  fabrics  fine, 
And  arabesque  and   lotus-flower  bore  each   the  broid- 

ered  sign 
Of  jewels  plucked  from   land  and   sea,  and   red  gold 

from  the  mine. 

Upon  his  throne  he  sat  alone,  half  buried  in  the 
gems 

That  strewed  his  tapestries  like  stars,  and  tipped 
their  tawny  hems, 

And  glittered  with  the  glory  of  a  hundred  dia 
dems. 


62  The  Mistress  of  the  Manse. 

He  saw  from   his   pavilion  door    the  nodding  heron- 
plumes 

His   nobles   wore   upon   their   brows,    while,    from   the 

it- 
rosy  glooms 

Which  hid   his  harem,  came  low  songs,  on  wings  of 
rare  perfumes ! 

The    elephants,   a   thousand    strong,   had    passed    his 

dreaming  eye, 
Caparisoned  with   golden   plates   on  head   and  breast 

and  thigh, 
And  a  hundred  flashing  troops  of  horse  unmarked  had 

thundered  by. 

He  sat   upon   old   Akbar's   throne,  the   heir   of  power 

and  fame  ; 
But  all   his   glory  was  as  dust,  and  dust  his  wondrous 

name — 
Swept   into   air,  and   scattered  far,  by  one   consuming 

flame ! 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse.  63 

For  on  that  day  of  all  the  days,  and  in  that  festal 
hour, 

He  sickened  with  his  glory  and  grew  weary  of  his 
power, 

And  pined  to  bind  upon  his  breast  his  harem's  choi 
cest  flower. 

"  Oh  Nourmahal !  oh  Nourmahal !  why  sit  I  here,"  he 

cried, — 
"  The  victim  of  these  gaudy  shows,  and  of  my  haughty 

pride, 
When   thou  art  dearer  to  my  soul   than  all   the  world 

beside  ! 

"  Thy  eyes  are  brighter  than  the   gems  piled  round 

my  gilded  seat ; 
Thy  cheeks  are  softer  than  the  silks  that  shimmer  at 

my  feet, 
And  purer  heart   than   thine   in  woman's  breast  hath 

never  beat! 


64  The  Mistress  of  the  Manse. 

"  My  first  love — and  my  only  love — Oh  babe  of  Can- 

dahar ! 
Torn  from  my  boyish  arms  at  first,  and,  like  a  silver 

star 
Shining  within   another  heaven,  and  worshipped    from 

afar, 

"Thou  art   my  own  at  last,  my  own!     I   pine   to  see 

thy  face ; 
Come  to  me,  Nourmahal !  Oh  come,  and  hallow  with 

thy  grace 
The  glories  that  without  thy  love  are  meaningless  and 

base ! " 

He   spoke   a  word,   and,  quick  as  light,  before   him, 

lying  prone 
A  dark-eyed  page,  with  gilded  vest  and  crimson-belted 

zone, 
Looked  up  with  waiting  ear  to  mark  the  message  from 

the  throne. 


TJic  Mistress  of  the  Manse.  65 

"  Go  summon   Nourmahal,  my  queen ;  and  when  her 

radiance  comes, 
Bear  my  command   of  silence   to   the   vinas   and   the 

drums, 
And  for  your   guerdon   take   your  choice  of  all   these 

gilded  crumbs." 

He    tossed  a  handful  of    the  gems  down  where    his 

minion  lay, 
Who  snatched  a  jewel  from  the  drift,  and  swiftly  sped 

away 
With    his    command    to    Nourmahal,  who    waited    to 

obey. 

9 

But    needlessly    the    mandate   fell   of   silence   on   the 

crowd, 
For  when  the  Empress   swept  the  path,  ten  thousand 

heads  were  bowed, 
And   drum    and  vina   ceased    their   din,   and   no   one 

spoke  aloud. 


66  The  Mistress  of  the  Manse. 

As  comes  the  moon  from  out  the  sea  with  her  attend 
ant  breeze, 

As  sweeps  the  morning  up  the  hills  and  blossoms  in 
the  trees, 

So  Nourmahal  to  Selim  came  :  then  fell  upon  her 
knees ! 

The  envious  jewels   looked  at  her  with   chill,  barbaric 

stare, 
The  cloth-of-gold  she  knelt  upon  grew  lustreless  and 

bare, 
And  all  the  place  was  cooler  in  the  darkness  of  her 

hair. 

And   while    she    knelt    in   queenly   pride    and   beauty 

strange  and  wild, 
And  held  her  breast  with  both  her  palms  and  looked 

on  him  and  smiled, 
She  seemed  no  more  of  common  earth,  but  Casyapa's 

child 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse.  67 

He   bent  to  her  as   thus   she   smiled ;    he  kissed  her 

lifted  cheek ; 
!'  Oh    Nourmahal,"   he    murmured  low,    "  more   dear 

than  I  can  speak, 
I'm  weary  of    my  lonely   life  :    give    me    the    rest    I 

seek." 

She  rose  and  paced  the  silken  floor,  as  if  in  mad  ca 
price, 

Then  paused,  and  from  the  Empress  changed  to  im- 
provisatrice, 

And  wove  this  song — a  golden  chain — that  led  him 
into  peace  : 

"  Lovely  children  of  the  light, 
Draped  in  radiant  locks  and  pinions, — 
Red  and  purple,  blue  and  white 
In  their  beautiful  dominions, 
On  the  earth  and  in  the  spheres, 
Dwell  the  little  glendoveers. 


68  The  Mistress  of  the  Manse. 

11  And  the  red  can  know  no  change, 
And  the  blue  are  blue  forever, 
And  the  yellow  wings  may  range 
Toward  the  white  or  purple  never. 
But  they  mingle  free  from  strife, 
For  their  color  is  their  life. 

"  When  their  color  dies,  they  die,— • 
Blent  with  earth  or  ether  slowly — 
Leaving  where  their  spirits  lie, 
Not  a  stain,  so  pure  and  holy 
Is  the  essence  and  the  thought 
Which  their  fading  brings  to  naught ! 

"  Each  contented  with  the  hue 
Which  indues  his  wings  of  beauty, 
Red  or  yellow,  white  or  blue, 
Sings  the  measure  of  his  duty 
Through  the  summer  clouds  in  peace, 
And  delights  that  never  cease. 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse.  69 

Not  with  envy  love  they  more 

Locks  and  pinions  purple- tinted, 

Nor  with  jealousy  adore 

Those  whose  pleasures  are  unstinted 

And  whose  purple  hair  and  wings 

Give  them  place  with  queens  and  kings. 

When  a  purple  glendoveer 
Flits  along  the  mute  expanses, 
They  surround  him,  far  and  near, 
With  their  glancing  wings  and  dances, 
And  do  honor  to  the  hue 
Loved  by  all  and  worn  by  few. 

In  the  days  long  gone,  alas  ! 
Two  upon  a  cloud,  low-seated, 
Saw  their  pinions  in  the  glass 
Of  a  silver  lake  repeated. 
One  was  blue  and  one  was  red, 
And  the  lovely  pair  were  wed. 


7O  The  Mistress  of  the  Manse. 

11  '  Purple  wings  are  very  fine,' 
Spoke  the  voice  of  Ruby,  gently: 

*  Ay,'  said  Sapphire,  '  they're  divine  I  '— 
Looking  at  his  blue  intently. 

*  But  to  wish  for  change  is  vain,' 
Ruby  said  :  '  We'll  not  complain.' 

"  Sapphire  stretched  his  loving  arms, 
And  she  nestled  on  his  bosom, 
While  his  heart  inhaled  her  charms 
As  the  sense  inhales  a  blossom  ; — 
Drank  her  wholly,  tint  and  tone, 
Blent  her  being  with  his  own. 

"  Rapture  passed,  they  raised  their  eyes, 
But  were  startled  into  clamor 
Of  a  marvellous  surprise  ! 
Was  it  color  !  was  it  glamour ! 
Purple-tinted,  sweet  and  warm, 
Was  each  wing  and  folded  form  ! 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse.  71 

"  Who  had  wrought  it — how  it  came — 
These  were  what  the  twain  disputed. 
How  were  mingled  smoke  and  flame 
Into  royal  hue  transmuted  ? 
Each  was  right,  and  each  was  wrong ; 
But  their  quarrel  was  not  long, 

"  For  the  moment  that  their  speech 
Differed  o'er  their  little  story, 
Swiftly  faded  off  from  each 
Every  trace  of  purple  glory  ; 
Blue  was  bluer  than  before, 
And  the  red  was  red  once  more 

"  Then  they  knew  th-it  both  were  wrong, 
And  in  sympathy  of  sorrow 
Learned  that  each  was  only  strong 
In  the  power  to  lend  and  borrow, — 
That  the  purple  never  grew 
But  by  grace  of  red  to  blue. 


72  The  Mistress  of  tJie  Manse. 

"  So,  embracing  in  content, 
Hearts  and  wings  again  united, 
Red  and  blue  in  purple  blent, 
And  their  holy  troth  replighted, 
Both,  as  happy  as  the  day, 
Kissed,  and  rose,  and  flew  away  ! 

"  And  for  twice  a  thousand  years, 
Floating  through  the  radiant  ether, 
Lived  the  happy  glendoveers, 
Of  the  other,  jealous  neither, — 
Sapphire  naught  without  the  red, 
Ruby  still  by  blue  bested. 

"  Then  when  weary  of  their  life, 

They  came  down  to  earth  at  even- 
Purple  husband,  purple  wife — 
From  the  upper  deeps  of  heaven, 
And  reclined  upon  the  grass, 
That  their  little  lives  might  pass. 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse.  73 

"  Wing  to  wing  and  arms  enwreathed, 
Sinking  from  their  life's  long  dreaming 
Into  earth  their  souls  they  breathed ; 
But  when  morning's  light  was  streaming, 
All  their  joys  and  sweet  regrets 
Bloomed  in  banks  of  violets  !  " 

As   from   its   dimpled  fountain,   at   its   own   capricious 

will, 
Each  step   a  note  of  music,  and  each  fall  and  flash  a 

thrill, 
The   rill   goes    singing   to   the    meadow   levels    and   is 

still, 

So  fell  from  Nourmahal  her  song  upon  the  captive 
sense ; 

It  dashed  in  spray  against  the  throne,  it  tinkled  through 
the  tents, 

And  died  at  last  among  the  flowery  banks  of  recom 
pense  ; 


74  The  Mistress  of  the  Manse. 

For  when  great  Selim  marked  her  fire,  and  read  hei 

riddle  well, 
And  watched  her   from  the   flushing   to  the    fading   of 

the  spell, 
He  sprang   forgetful  from  his  seat,  and  caught   her  as 

she  fell. 

He  raised  her  in  his  tender  arms;  he  bore  her  to  his 

throne : 
"No   more,  oh!    Nourmahal,  my  wife,  no   more    I  sit 

alone  ; 
And    the    future     for    the    dreary    past    shall     royally 

atone  !  " 

He   called  to  him   the   princes   and  the   nobles  of  the 

land, 
Then  took   the  signet-ring   from  his,  and  placed  it  on 

her  hand, 
And  bade   them   honor   as   his   own,  fair   Nourmahal's 

command. 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse.  75 

And   on   the    minted   silver   that   his   largess   scattered 

wide, 
And  on  the  gold  of  commerce,  till  the  mighty  Selim 

died, 
Her  name  and  his  in  shining  boss  stood  equal,  side 

by  side. 

XXII. 

The  opening  of  the  wondrous  tome 
Was  like  the  opening  of  a  door 
Into  a  vast  and  pictured  dome, 
Crowded,  from  vaulted  roof  to  floor, 
With  secrets  of  her  life  and  home. 

To  be  like  Philip  was  to  be 
Another  Philip — only  less  ! 
To  win  his  wit  in  full  degree 
Would  bear  to  him  but  nothingness, 
From  one  no  wiser  grown  than  he ! 


76  The  Mistress  of  the  Manse. 

If  blue  and  red  in  Hindostan 

At  home  were  also  red  and  blue, 

She  learned  that  woman  and  that  man 

Had  never  worn  the  royal  hue 

Till  blue  and  red  together  ran 


In  complement  of  each  to  each ; 

She  might  not  tint  his  life  at  all 

By  learning  wisdom  he  could  teach ; 

So  what  she  gave,  though  poor  and  small, 

Should  be  of  that  beyond  his  reach. 


Where  Philip  fed,  she  would  not  feed ; 
Where  Philip  walked,  she  would  not  go ; 
The  books  he  read  she  would  not  read, 
But  live  her  separate  life,  and,  so, 
Have  sole  supplies  to  meet  his  need. 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse. 

He  held  his  mission  and  his  range ; 
His  way  and  work  were  all  his  own ; 
And  she  would  give  him  in  exchange 
What  she  could  win  and  she  alone, 
Of  life  and  learning,  fresh  and  strange. 


XXIII. 

While  thus  she  sat  in  musing  mood, 
Determining  her  life's  emprise, 
The  sunlight  flushed  the  distant  wood, 
Then,  coming  closer,  filled  her  eyes, 
And  glorified  her  solitude. 

The  clouds  were  shivered  by  the  lance 
Sped  downward  by  the  morning  sun, 
And  from  her  heart,  in  swift  advance, 
The  shadows  vanished,  one  by  one, 
Till  more  than  sunlight  filled  the  manse. 


78  The  Mistress  of  the  Manse. 

She  closed  the  volume  with  a  gust 
That  sprent  the  light  with  powdered  gold  ; 
Then  placed  it  high  to  hide  and  rust 
Where,  curious  and  over  bold 
She  found  it,  lying  in  its  dust. 


Her  soul  was  light,  her  path  was  plain  ; 
One  shadow  only  drooped  above, — 
The  shadow  of  a  heart  and  brain 
So  charged  with  overwhelming  love 
That  it  oppressed  and  gave  her  pain. 


The  modest  comb  that  kept  her  hair ; 
To  Philip  was  a  golden  crown  ; 
And  every  ringlet  was  a  snare, 
And  every  hat,  and  every  gown 
And  slipper,  something  more  than  fair. 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse.  79 

His  love  had  glorified  her  grace, 
And  she  was  his,  and  not  her  own, — 
So  wholly  his  she  had  no  place 
Beside  him  on  his  lonely  throne, 
Or  share  in  love's  divine  embrace. 


But  still  she  saw  and  held  her  plan, 
And  fear  made  way  for  springing  hope. 
If  she  was  man's,  then  hers  was  man  : 
Both  held  their  own  in  even  scope  ; 
And  then  and  there  her  life  began. 


LOVE'S   PHILOSOPHIES. 


A  WIFE  is  like  an  unknown  sea ; — 

Least  known  to  him  who  thinks  he  knows 

Where  all  the  Shores  of  Promise  be, 

Where  lie  the  Islands  of  Repose, 

And  where  the  rocks  that  he  must  flee. 


Capricious  winds,  uncertain  tides, 
Drive  the  young  sailor  on  and  on, 
Till  all  his  charts  and  all  his  guides 
Prove  false,  and  vain  conceit  is  gone, 
And  only  docile  Love  abides. 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse.  81 

Where  lay  the  shallows  of  the  maid, 
No  plummet-line  the  wife  may  sound ; 
Where  round   the  sunny  islands  played 
The  pulses  of  the  great  profound, 
Lies  low  the  treacherous  everglade. 


And,  as  he  sails,  he  is,  perforce, 
Discoverer  of  a  strange  new  world  ; 
And  finds,  whate'er  may  be  his  course, 
Green  lands  within  white  seas  impearled, 
With  streams  of  unsuspected  source 


Which  feed  with  gold  delicious  fruits, 
Kept  by  unguessed  Hesperides, 
Or  cool  the  lips  of  gentle  brutes 
That  breed  and  browse  among  the  trees 

Whose  wind -tossed  limbs  and  leaves  are  lutes. 
4* 


82  The  Mistress  of  the  Manse. 

The  maiden  free,  the  maiden  wed, 
Can  never,  never  be  the  same. 
A  new  life  springs  from  out  the  dead, 
And,  with  the  speaking  of  a  name, 
A  breath  upon  the  marriage-bed, 


She  finds  herself  a  something  new — 
(Which  he  learns  later,  but  no  less)  j 
And  good  and  evil,  false  and  true, 
May  change  their  features — who  can  guess  ?- 
Seen  close,  or  from  another  view. 


For  maiden  life,  with  all  its  fire, 
Is  hid  within  a  grated  cell, 
Where  every  fancy  and   desire 
And  graceless  passion,  guarded  well, 
Sits  dumb  behind  the  woven  wire. 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse.  83 

Marriage  is  freedom  :  only  when 
The  husband  turns  the  prison-key 
Knows  she  herself;  nor  even   then 
Knows  she  more  wisely  well  than  he 
Who  finds  himself  least  wise  of  men. 


New  duties  bring  new  powers  to  birth, 

And   new  relations,  new  surprise 

Of  depths  of  weakness  or  of  worth, 

Until  he  doubt  if  her  disguise 

Mask  more  of  heaven,  or  more  of  earth. 


Tears  spring  beneath  a  careless  touch  ; 
Endurance  hardens  with  a  word  ; 
She  holds  a  trifle  with  a  clutch 
So  strangely,  childishly  absurd, 
That  he  who  loves  and  pardons  much 


84  The  Mistress  of  the  Manse. 

Doubts  if  her  wayward  wit  be  sane, 
When  straight  beyond  his  manly  power 
She  stiffens  to  the  awful  strain 
Of  some  supreme  or  crucial  hour, 
And  stands  unblanched  in  fiercest  pain ! 


A  jealous  thought,  a  petty  pique, 
Enwraps  in  gloom,  or  bursts  in  storm  ; 
She  questions  all  that  love  may  speak, 
And  weighs  its  tone,  and  marks  its  form, 
Or  yields  her  frailty  to  a  freak 


That  vexes  him  or  breeds  disgust; 
Then  rises  in  heroic  flame, 
And  treads  a  danger  into  dust, 
Or  puts  his  doubting  soul  to  shame 
With  love  unfeigned  and  perfect  trust. 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse.  85 

Still  seas  unknown  the  husband  sails ; 
Life-long  the  lovely  marvel  lasts ; 
In  golden  calms  or  driving  gales, 
With  silent  prow  or  reeling  masts, 
Each  hour  a  fresh  surprise  unveils. 


The  brooding,  threatening  bank  of  mist 
Grows  into  groups  of  virid  isles, 
By  sea  embraced  and  sunlight  kissed, 
Or  breaks  into  resplendent  smiles 
Of  cinnabar  and  amethyst ! 


No  day  so  bright  but  scuds  may  fall, 
No  day  so  still  but  winds  may  blow  ; 
No  morn  so  dismal  with  the  pall 
Of  wintry  storm,  but  stars  may  glow 
When  evening  gathers,  over  all ! 


86  The  Mistress  of  the  Manse. 

And  so  thought  Philip,  when,  in  haste 
Returning  from  his  lengthened  stay — 
The  river  and  the  lawn  retraced — 
He  found  his  Mildred  blithe  and  gay, 
And  all  his  anxious  care  a  waste. 

To  be  half  vexed  that  she  could  thrive 
Without  him  through  a  morning's  span, 
Upon  the  honey  in  her  hive, 
Was  but  to  prove  himself  a  man 
And  show  that  he  was  quite  alive ! 


II. 

A  sympathetic  word  or  kiss, 
(Mildred  had  insight  to  discern,) 
Though  grateful  quite,  is  quite  amiss, 
In  leading  to  the  life  etern 
The  soul  that  has  no  bread  in  this. 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse.  87 

The  present  want  must  aye  be  fed, 
And  first  relieved  the  present  care  : 
"Give  us  this  day  our  daily  bread" 
Must  be  recited  in  our  prayer 
Before  "forgive  us"  may  be  said. 


And  he  who  lifts  a  soul  from  vice, 
And  leads  the  way  to  better  lands  ; 
Must  part  his  raiment,  share  his  slice, 
And  oft  with  weary,  bleeding  hands, 
Pave  the  long  path  with  sacrifice. 


So  on  a  pleasant  summer  morn, 
Wrapped  in  her  motive,  sweet  and  safe, 
She  sought  the  homes  of  sin  and  scorn, 
And  found  her  little  Sunday  waif 
Ragged,  and  hungry,  and  forlorn. 


88  The  Mistress  of  the  Manse. 

She  called  her  quickly  to  her  knee ; 
And  with  her  came  a  motley  troop 
Of  children,  poor  and  foul  as  she, 
Who  gathered  in  a  curious  group, 
And  ceased  their  play,  to  hear  and  see. 


Tanned  brown  by  all  the  summer  suns, 
With  brutish  brows  and  vacant  eyes, 
They  drank  her  speech  and  ate  her  buns, 
While  she  behind  their  sad  disguise 
Beheld  her  dear  Lord's  "little  ones." 


She  stood  like  Ruth  amid  the  wheat, 
With  ready  hand  and  sickle  keen, 
And  looked  on  all  with  aspect  sweet ; 
For  where  she  only  thought  to  glean, 
She  found  a  harvest  round  her  feet. 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse.  89 

Ah !   little  need  the  tale  to  write 

Of  garments  begged  from  door  to  door, 

Of  needles  plying  in  the  night, 

And  money  gathered  from  the  store 

Alike  of  screw  and  Sybarite, 


With  which  to  clothe  the  little    flock. 
She  went  like  one  sent  forth  of  God 
To  loose  the  bolts  of  heart  and  lock, 
And  with  the  smiting  of  her  rod 
To  call  a  flood  from  every  rock. 


And  little  need  the  tale  to  tell 
How,  when  the  Sunday  came  again, 
A  wondrous  change  the  group  befell, 
And  how  from  every  noisome  den, 
Responding  to  the  chapel  bell, 


Ike  Mistress  of  the  Manse. 

They  issued  forth  with  shout  and  call, 
And  Mildred  walking  at  their  head, 
Who,  with  her  silken  parasol, 
Bannered  the  army  that  she  led, 
And  with  low  words  commanded  all. 


The  little  army  walked  through  smilea 
That  hung  like  lamps  above  their  march, 
And  lit  their  swart  and  straggling  riles, 
While  bending  elm  and  plumy  larch 
Shaped  into  broad  cathedral  aisles 


The  paths  that  led  with  devious  trend 
To  where  the  ivied  chapel  stood. 
There  their  long  passage  found  its  end, 
And  there  they  gathered  in  a  brood 
Of  gentle  clamor  round  their  friend. 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse.  91 

A  score  pressed  in  on  either  side 

To  share  the  burden  of  her  care, 

And  hearts  and  house  gave  entrance  wide 

To  those  to  whom  the  words  of  prayer 

Were  stranger  than  the  curse  of  pride. 

And  Mildred  who,  without  a  thought 
Of  glory  in  her  week's  long  task, 
This  marvel  of  the  week  had  wrought, 
Had  earned  the  boon  she  would  not  ask, 
And  won  more  love  than  she  had  sought. 


in. 

As  two  who  walk  through  forest  aisles, 
Lit  all  the  way  by  forest  flowers, 
Divide  at  morn  through  twin  denies 
To  meet  again  in  distant  hours, 
With  plunder  plucked  from  all  the  miles, 


92  The  Mistress  of  the  Manse. 

So  Philip  and  so  Mildred  went 
Into  their  walks  of  daily  life, — 
Parting  at  morn  with  sweet  consent, 
And — tireless  husband,  busy  wife — 
Together  when  the  day  was  spent, 


Bringing  the  treasures  they  had  won 
From  sundered  tracks  of  enterprise, 
To  learn  from  each  what  each  had  done, 
And  prove  each  other  grown  more  wise 
Than  when  the  morning  was  begun. 


He  strengthened  her  with  manly  thought 
And  learning,  gathered  from  the  great ; 
And  she,  whose  quicker  eye  had  caught 
The  treasures  of  the  broad  estate 
Of  common  life  and  learning,  brought 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse.  93 

Her  gleanings  from  the  level  field, 
And  gave  them  gladly  to  his  hands, 
Who  had  not  dreamed  that  they  could  yield 
Such  sheaves,  or  hold  within  their  bands 
Such  wealth  of  lovely  flowers  concealed. 


His  grave  discourse,  his  judgment  sure, 
Gave  tone  and  temper  to  her  soul, 
While  her  swift  thoughts  and  vision  pure, 
And  mirth  that  would  not  brook  control, 
And  wit  that  kept  him  insecure 


Within  his  dignified  repose, 
Refreshed  and  quickened  him  like  wine. 
No  tender  word  or  dainty  gloze 
Could  give  him  pleasure  half  so  fine 
As  that  which  tingled  to  her  blows. 


94  The  Mistress  of  the  Manse. 

He  gave  her  food  for  heart  and  mind, 
And  raised  her  toward  his  higher  plane ; 
She  showed  him  that  his  eyes  were  blind; 
She  proved  his  lofty  wisdom  vain, 
And  held  him  humbly  with  his  kind. 


IV. 

Oh,  blessed  sleep !   in  which  exempt 
From  our  tired  selves   long  hours  we  lie, 
Our  vapid  worthlessness  undreamt, 
And  our  poor  spirits  saved  thereby 
From  perishing  of  self- contempt ! 

We  weary  of  our  petty  aims  ; 
We  sicken  with  our  selfish  deeds  ; 
We  shrink  and  shrivel  in  the  flames 
That  low  desire  ignites  and  feeds, 
And  grudge  the  debt  that  duty  claims. 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse.  95 

Oh  sweet  forgetfulness  of  sleep  ! 
Oh  bliss,  to  drop  the  pride  of  dress, 
And  all  the  shams  o'er  which  we  weep, 
And,  toward  our  native  nothingness, 
To  drop  ten  thousand  fathoms  deepl 


At  morning  only— strong,  erect — 
We  face  our  mirrors  not  ashamed ; 
For  then  alone  we  meet  unflecked 
The  image  we  at  evening  blamed, 
And  find  refreshed  our  self-respect. 


Ah !   little  wonderment  that  those, 
Who  see  us  most  and  love  us  best, 
Find  that  a  true  affection  grows 
More  strong  and  sweet  in  tone  and  zest 
Through  frequent  partings  and  repose. 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse. 

Our  fruit  grows  dead  in  pulp  and  rind 
When  seen  and  handled  overmuch ; 
The  roses  fade,  our  fingers  bind ; 
And  with  familiar  kiss  and  touch 
The  graces  wither  from  our  kind. 


Man  lives  on  love,  at  love's  expense, 
And  woman,  so  her  love  be  sweet ; 
Best  honey  palls  upon  the  sense 
When  it  is  tempted  to  repeat 
Too  oft  its  fine  experience. 


And  Mildred,  with  instinctive  skill, 
And  loving  neither  most  nor  least, 
Stood  out  from  Philip's  grasping  will, 
And  gave,  where  he  desired  a  feast, 
The  taste  that  left  him  hungry  still. 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse.  97 

She  hid  her  heart  behind  a  mask, 
And  held  him  to  his  manly  course ; 
One  hour  in  love  she  bade  him  bask, 
And  then  she  drove,  with  playful  force, 
The  laggard  to  his  daily  task. 

They  went  their  way  and  kept  their  care, 

And  met  again — their  toil  complete, — 

Like  angels  on  a  heavenly  stair, 

Or  pilgrims  in  a  golden  street, 

Grown  stronger  one,  and  one  more  fair! 


v. 

As  one  worn  down  by  petty  pains, 
With  fevered  head  and  restless  limb, 
Flies  from  the  toil  that  stings  and  stains, 
And  all  the  cares  that  wearied  him, 

And  some  far,  silent  summit  gains ; 
5 


98  The  Mistress  of  the  Manse. 

And  in  its  strong,  sweet  atmosphere, 
Or  in  the  blue,  or  in  the  green, 
Finds  his  discomforts  disappear, 
And  loses  in  the  pure  serene 
The  garnered  humors  of  a  year ; 


And  sees  not  how  and  knows  not  when 
The  old  vexations  leave  their  seat, 
So  Philip,  happiest  of  men, 
Saw  all  his  petty  cares  retreat, 
And  vanish,  not  to  come  again. 


Where  he  had  thought  to  shield  and  serve, 
Himself  had  ministry  instead  ; 
He  heard  no  vexing  call  to  swerve 
From  larger  toil,  for  labors  sped 
By  Mildred's  finer  wit  and  nerve. 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse.  99 

In  deft  and  deferential  ways 
She  took  the  house  by  silent  siege  ; 
And  Dinah,  warmest  in  her  praise, 
Grew,  unaware,  her  loyal  liege, 
And  served  her  truly  all  her  days. 

And  many  a  sad  and  stricken  maid, 
And  many  a  lorn  and  widowed  life 
That  came  for  counsel  or  for  aid 
To  Philip,  met  the  pastor's  wife, 
And  on  her  heart  their  burden  laid. 


VI. 

He  gave  her  what  she  took — her  will ; 
And  made  it  space  for  life  full-orbed. 
He  learned  at  last  that  every  rill 
Loses  its  freshness,  when  absorbed 
By  the  great  stream  that  turns  the  mill. 


ioo  The  Mistress  of  the  Manse. 

With  hand  ungrasping  for  her  dower, 
He  found  its  royal  income  his  ; 
And  every  swiftly  kindling  power — 
Self-moved  in  its  activities — 
Becoming  brighter  every  hour. 


The  air  is  sweet  which  we  inspire 
When  it  is  free  to  come  and  go  ; 
And  sound  of  brook  and  scent  of  brier 
Rise  freshest  where  the  breezes  blow, 
That  feed  our  breath  and  fan  our  fire. 


That  love  is  weak  which  is  too  strong ; 
A  man  may  be  a  woman's  grave  ; 
The  right  of  love  swells  oft  to  wrong, 
And  silken  bonds  may  bind  a  slave 
As  truly  as  a  leathern  thong. 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse.  101 

We  may  not  dine  upon  the  bird 
That  fills  our  home  with  minstrelsy ; 
The  living  vine  may  never  gird 
Too  firm  and  close  the  living  tree, 
Without  sad  sacrifice  incurred. 


The  crystal  goblet  that  we  drain 

Will  be  forever  after  dry  ; 

But  he  who  sips,  and  sips  again, 

And  leaves  it  to  the  open  sky, 

Will  find  it  filled  with  dew  and  rain. 


The  lilies  burst,  the  roses  blow 

Into  divinest  balm  and  bloom, 

When  free  above  and  free  below ; 

And  life  and  love  must  have  large  room, 

That  life  and  love  may  largest  grow. 


IO2  The  Mistress  of  the  Manse. 

So  Philip  learned  (what  Mildred  saw), 
That  love  is  like  a  well  profound, 
From  which  two  souls  have  right  to  draw, 
And  in  whose  waters  will  be  drowned 
The  one  who  takes  the  other's  law. 


VII. 

Ambition  was  an  alien  word, 
Which  Mildred  faintly  understood; 
Its  poisoned  breathing  had  not  blurred 
The  whiteness  of  her  womanhood, 
Nor  had  its  blatant  trumpet  stirred 

To  quicker  pulse  her  heart  content. 
In  social  tasks  and  home  employ, 
She  did  not  question  what  it  meant ; 
But  bore  her  woman's  lot  with  joy 
And  sweetness,  wheresoe'er  she  went. 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse.  103 

If  ever  with  unconscious  thrill 
It  touched  her,  in  some  vagrant  dream, 
She  only  wished  that  God  would  fill 
With  larger  tide  the  goodly  stream 
That  flowed  beside  her,  strong  and  still. 


She  knew  that  love  was  more  than  fame, 
And  happy  conscience  more  than  love ; — 
Far  off  and  wild,  the  wings  of  flame ! 
Close  by,  the  pinions  of  the  dove 
That  hovered  white  above  her  name! 


She  honored  Philip  as  a  man, 
And  joyed  in  his  supreme  estate  ; 
But  never  dreamed  that  under  ban 
She  lives  who  never  can  be  great, 
Or  chieftain  of  a  crowd  or  clan. 


1O4  The  Mistress  of  the  Manse. 

The  public  eye  was  like  a  knife 

That  pierced  and  plagued  her  shrinking  heart, 

To  be  a  woman,  and  a  wife, 

With  privilege  to  dwell  apart, 

And  hold  unseen  her  modest  life — 


Alike  from  praise  and  blame  aloof; 
And  free  to  live  and  move  in  peace 
Beneath  Love's  consecrated  roof- 
Was  boon  so  great  she  could  not  cease 
Her  thanks  for  the  divine  behoof. 


Black  turns  to  rust  and  blue  to  blight 
Beneath  the  shining  of  the  sun  ; 
And  e'en  the  spotless  robe  of  white, 
Worn  overlong,  grows  dim  and  dun 
Through  the  strange  alchemy  of  light. 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse.  105 

Nor  wife  nor  maiden,  weak  or  brave, 
Can  stand  and  face  the  public  stare, 
And  win  the  plaudits  she  may  crave, 
And  stem  the  hisses  she  may  dare, 
And  modest  truth  and  beauty  save. 


No  woman,  in  her  soul,  is  she 
Who  longs  to  poise  above  the  roar 
Of  motley  multitudes,  and  be 
The  idol  at  whose  feet  they  pour 
The  wine  of  their  idolatry. 


Coarse  labor  makes  its  doer  coarse  ; 
Great  burdens  harden  softest  hands  ; 
A  gentle  voice  grows  harsh  and  hoarse 
That  warns  and  threatens  and  commands 

Beyond  the  measure  of  its  force. 
5* 


106  The  Mistress  of  the  Manse, 

Oh  sweet,  beyond  all  speech,  to  feel 
Within  no  answer  to  the  drum, 
Or  echo  to  the  bugle-peal, 
That  calls  to  duties  which  benumb 
In  service  of  the  commonweal ! 


Oh  sweet  to  feel,  beyond  all  speech, 
That  most  and  best  of  human  kind 
Have  leave  to  live  beyond  the  reach 
Of  toil  that  tarnishes,  and  find 
No  tongue  but  Envy's  to  impeach ! 


Oh  sweet,  that  most  unnoticed  deeds 

Give  play  to  fine,  heroic  blood  ! — 

That  hid  from  light,  and  shut  from  weeds, 

The  rose  is  fairer  in  its  bud 

Than  in  the  blossom  that  succeeds ! 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse.  107 

He  is  the  helpless  slave  who  must ; 
And  she  enfranchised  who  may  sit 
Unblamed  above  the  din  and  dust, 
Where  stronger  hands  and  coarser  wit 
Strive  equally  for  crown  and  crust. 


So  ran  her  thought,  and  broader  yet, 
Who  scanned  her  own  by  Philip's  pace  ; 
And  never  did  the  wife  forget 
Her  grateful  tribute  for  the  grace 
That  charged  her  with  so  sweet  a  debt. 


So  ran  her  thought ;  and  in  her  breast 
Her  wifely  pride  to  pity  grew, 
That  Philip,  by  his  Lord's  behest — 
To  duty  and  to  nature  true — 
Must  do  his  bravest  and  his  best, 


io8  The  Mistress  of  the  Manse. 

Through  winter's  cold  and  summer's  heat, 
Where  all  might  praise  and  all  might  blame, 
And  thus  be  topic  of  the  street, 
And  see  his  fair  and  honest  name 
A  football,  kicked  by  careless  feet. 

Sho  loved  her  creed,  and  doubting  not 
She  read  it  well  from  Nature's  scroll, 
She  found  no  line  or  word  to  blot ; 
But,  from  her  woman's  modest  soul, 
Thanked  her  Creator  for  her  lot. 


VIII. 

He  who,  upon  an  Alpine  peak, 
Stands,  when  the  sunrise  lifts  the  East, 
And  gilds  the  crown  and  lights  the  cheek 
Of  largest  monarch  down  to  least, 
Of  all  the  summits  cold  and  bleak, 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse.  109 

Finds  sadly  that  it  brings  no  boon 
For  all  his  long  and  toilsome  leagues, 
And  chill  at  once  and  weary  soon, 
Rests  from  his  fevers  and  fatigues, 
And  waits  the  recompense  of  noon. 


For  then  the  valleys,  near  and  far, 
The  hillsides,  fretted  by  the  vine, 
The  glacier-drift,  the  torrent-scar 
Whose  restless  waters  shoot  and  shine, 
The  silver  tarn,  that  like  a  star 


Trembles  and  flames  with  stress  of  light, 
And  scattered  hamlet  and  chalet 
That  dot  with  brown,  or  paint  with  white, 
The  landscape  quivering  in  the  day, 
With  beauty  all  his  toil  requite. 


no  The  Mistress  of  the  Manse. 

Mountains,  from  mountain  altitudes, 
Are  only  hills,  as  bleak  and  bare  ; 
And  he  whose  daring  step  intrudes 
Upon  their  grandeur,  and  the  rare 
Cold  light  or  gloom  that  o'er  them  broods, 


Finds  that  with  even  brow  to  stand 
Among  the  heights  that  bade  him  climb, 
Is  loss  of  all  that  made  them  grand, 
While  all  of  lovely  and  sublime 
Looks  up  to  him  from  lake  and  land. 


Great  men  are  few,  and  stand  apart ; 
And  seem  divinest  when  remote. 
From  brain  to  brain,  and  heart  to  heart, 
No  thoughts  of  genial  commerce  float : 
Each  holds  his  own  exclusive  mart. 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse.  1 1 1 

And  when  we  meet  them,  face  to  face, 
And  hand  to  hand  their  greatness  greet, 
Our  steps  we  willingly  retrace, 
And  gather  humbly  at  their  feet, 
With  those  who  live  upon  their  grace. 


And  man  and  woman — mount  and  vale — 
Have  charms,  each  from  the  other  seen, — 
The  robe  of  rose,  the  coat  of  mail  : 
The  springing  turf,  the  black  ravine  : 
The  tossing  pines,  the  waving  swale  : 


Which  please  the  sight  with  constant  joy. 
Thus  living,  each  has  power  to  call 
The  other's  thoughts  with  sweet  decoy, 
And  one  can  rise  and  one  can  fall 
But  to  distemper  or  destroy. 


1 1 2  The  Mistress  of  the  Manse. 

The  dewy  meadow  breeds  the  cloud 
That  rises  on  ethereal  wings, 
And  wraps  the  mountain  in  a  shroud 
From  which  the  living  lightning  springs 
And  torrents  pour,  that,  lithe  and  loud, 


Leap  down  in  service  to  the  plains, 
Or  feed  the  fountains  at  their  source  ; 
And  only  thus  the  mountain  gains 
The  vital  fulness  of  the  force 
That  fills  the  meadow's  myriad  veins. 


In  fair,  reciprocal  exchange 
Of  good  which  each  appropriates, 
The  meadow  and  the  mountain-range 
Nourish  their  beautiful  estates  ; 
And  lofty  wild  and  lowly  grange 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse.  113 

Thrive  on  the  commerce  thus  ordained ; 
And  not  a  reek  ascends  the  rock, 
And  not  a  drift  of  dew  is  rained, 
But  eyrie-brood  or  tended  flock 
By  the  sweet  gift  is  entertained. 


A  meadow  may  be  fair  and  broad, 
And  hold  a  river  in  its  rest ; 
Or  small,  and  with  the  silver  gaud 
Of  a  lone  lakelet  on  its  breast, 
Or  but  a  patch,  that,  overawed, 


Clings  humbly  to  the  mountain's  hem : 
It  matters  not :    it  is  the  charm 
That  cheers  his  life,  and  holds  the  stem 
Of  every  flower  that  tempts  his  arm, 
Or  greets  his  snowy  diadem. 


1 14  The  Mistress  of  the  Manse. 

Dolts  talk  of  largest  and  of  least, 
And  worse  than  dolts  are  they  who  prate 
Of  Beauty  captive  to  the  Beast ; 
For  man  in  woman  finds  his  mate, 
And  thrones  her  equal  at  his  feast. 


She  matches  meekness  with  his  might, 
And  patience  with  his  power  to  act, — 
His  judgment  with  her  quicker  sight ; 
And  wins  by  subtlety  and  tact 
The  battles  he  can  only  fight. 


And  she  who  strives  to  take  the  van 
In  conflict,  or  the  common  way, 
Does  outrage  to  the  heavenly  plan, 
And  outrage  to  the  finer  clay 
That  makes  her  beautiful  to  man. 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse.  115 

All  this,  and  more  than  this,  she  saw 
Who  reigned  in  Philip's  house  and  heart. 
Far  off,  he  seemed  without  a  flaw ; 
Close  by,  her  tasteless  counterpart, 
And  slave  to  Nature's  common  law. 


To  climb  with  fierce,  familiar  stride 
His  dizzy  paths  of  life  and  thought, 
Would  but  degrade  him  from  her  pride, 
And  bring  the  majesty  to  naught 
Which  love  and  distance  magnified. 


If  she  should  grow  like  him,  she  knew 
He  would  admire  and  love  her  less ; 
The  eagle's  image  might  be  true, 
But  eagle  of  the  wilderness 
Would  find  no  consort  in  the  view. 


n6  77ie  Mistress  of  the  Manse. 

A  woman,  in  her  woman's  sphere, 
A  loyal  wife  and  worshipper, 
She  only  thirsted  to  appear 
As  fair  to  him  as  he  to  her, 
And  fairer  still,  from  year  to  year. 


And  he  who  quickly  learned  to  purge 
His  fancy  of  the  tender  whim 
That  she  was  floating  at  the  verge 
Of  womanhood,  half  hid  to  him, 
Saw  her  with  gracious  mien  emerge, 


And  stand  full-robed  upon  the  shore, 

With  faculties  and  charms  unguessed ; 

With  wondrous  eyes  that  looked  before, 

And  hands  that  helped  and  words  that  blessed- 

The  mistress  of  an  alien  lore 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse.  117 

Beyond  the  wisdom  of  the  schools 
And  all  his  manly  power  to  win ; 
With  handicraft  of  tricks  and  tools 
That  coniured  marvels  with  a  pin, 
And  miracles  with  skeins  and  spools ! 


She  seemed  to  mock  his  dusty  dearth 
With  flowers  that  sprang  beneath  his  eyes  ; 
Till  all  he  was,  seemed  little  worth, 
And  she  he  deemed  so  little  wise, 
Became  the  wisest  of  the  earth. 


In  all  the  struggles  of  his  soul, 
And  all  the  strifes  his  soul  abhorred, 
She  shone  before  him  like  a  goal— 
A  shady  bower  of  fresh  reward — 
A  shallop  riding  in  the  mole, 


1 1 8  The  Mistress  of  the  Manse, 

That  waited  with  obedient  helm 
To  bear  him  over  sparkling  seas, 
Into  a  new  and  fragrant  realm, 
Before  the  vigor  of  a  breeze 
That  drove,  but  might  not  overwhelm. 


IX. 

To  symmetry  the  oak  is  grown 
Which  all  winds  visit  on  the  lea, 
While  that  which  lists  the  monotone 
Of  the  long  blast  that  sweeps  the  sea, 
And  answers  to  its  breath  alone, 

Turns  with  aversion  from  the  breeze, 
And  stretches  all  its  stunted  limbs 
Landward  and  heavenward,  toward  the  trees 
That  listen  to  a  thousand  hymns, 
And  grow  to  grander  destinies. 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse.  119 

Man  may  not  live  on  whitest  loaves, 
With  all  of  coarser  good  dismissed  ; 
He  pines  and  starves  who  never  roves 
Beyond  the  holy  eucharist, 
To  gather  of  the  fields  and  groves. 


And  he  who  seeks  to  fill  his  heart 
With  solace  of  a  single  friend, 
Will  find  refreshment  but  in  part, 
Or,  sadder  still,  will  find  the  end 
Of  all  his  reach  of  thought  and  art. 


They  who  love  best  need  friendship  most ; 
Hearts  only  thrive  on  varied  good  ; 
And  he  who  gathers  from  a  host 
Of  friendly  hearts  his  daily  food, 
Is  the  best  friend  that  we  can  boast. 


I2O           The  Mistress  of  the  Manse. 

She  left  her  husband  with  his  friends  ; 
She  called  them  round  him  at  her  board  ; 
And  found  their  culture  made  amends 
For  all  the  time  that,  from  her  hoard, 
She  spared  him  for  these  nobler  ends. 


He  was  her  lover  ;   that  sufficed  : 
His  home  was  in  the  Holy  Place 
With  that  of  the  Beloved  Christ. 
And  friendship  had  no  subtle  grace 
By  which  his  love  could    be  enticed. 


Of  all  his  friends,  she  was  but  one  : 
She  held  with  them  a  common  field. 
Exclusive  right — with  love  begun — 
Ended  with  love,  and  stood  repealed, 
Leaving  his  friendship  free  to  run 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse.  121 

Toward  man  or  woman,  all  unmissed. 
She  knew  she  had  no  right  to  bind 
His  friendship  to  her  single  wrist, 
So  long  as  love  was  true  and  kind, 
And  made  her  its  monopolist. 


No  time  was  grudged  with  jealous  greed 
Which  either  books  or  friendship  claimed. 
He  was  her  friend,  and  she  had  need 
Of  all — unhindered  and  unblamed — 
That  he  could  win,  through  word  or  deed. 


Her  friend  waxed  great  as  grew  the  man ; 
Her  temple  swelled  as  rose  her  priest — 
With  power  to  bless  and  right  to  ban  ;— 
And  all  who  served  him,  most  or  least,— 

From  chorister  and  sacristan 
6 


122  The  Mistress  of  the  Manse. 

To  those  whose  frankincense  and  myrrh 
Perfumed  the  sacred  courts  with  alms, — 
Were  gracious  ministers  to  her, 
Who  found  the  largess  in  her  palms, 
And  him  the  friendly  almoner. 


X. 

The  river  of  their  life  was  one ; 

The  shores  down  which  they  passed   were  two  ; 

One  mirrored  mountains,  huge  and  dun, 

The  other  crimped  the  green  and  blue, 

And  sparkled  in  the  kindly  sun  ! 

Twin  barks,  with  answering  flags,  they  move< 
With  even  canvas  down  the  stream, 
In  smooth  or  ruffled  waters  grooved, 
And  found  such  islands  in  their  dream 
As  rest  and  loving  speech  behooved. 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse.  123 

Ah  fair  the  goodly  gardens  smiled 
On  Philip  at  his  rougher  strand ! 
And  grandly  loomed  the  summits,  isled 
In  seas  of  cloud,  to  her  who  scanned 
From  her  far  shore  the  lofty  wild- 


Two  lives,  two  loves — both  self-forgot 
In  loyal  homage  to  their  oath  ; 
Two  lives,  two  loves,  but  living  not 
By  ministry  that  reached  them  both, 
In  service  of  a  common  lot, 


They  sailed  the  stream  ;   and  every  mile 
Broadened  with  beauty  as  they  passed  ; 
And  fruitful  shore  and  trysting-isle, 
And  all  love's  intercourse  were  glassed 
And  blessed  in  Heaven's  benignant  smile. 


LOVE'S  CONSUMMATIONS. 

THE  summer  passed,  the  autumn  came  ; 
The  world  swung  over  toward  the  night ; 
The  forests  robed  themselves  in  flame, 
Then  faded  slowly  into  white  ; 
And  set  within  a  crystal  frame 


Of  frozen  streams,  the  shaggy  boles 
Of  oak  and  elm,  with  leafless  crowns, 
Were  painted  stark  upon  the  knolls ; 
And  cots  and  villages  and  towns 
On  virgin  canvas  glowed  like  coals 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse.  125 

In  tawny  red,  or  strove  in  vain 

To  shame  the  white  in  which  they  stood. 

The  fairest  tint  was  but  a  stain 

Upon  the  snow,  that  quenched  the  wood, 

And  paved  the  street,  and  draped  the  plain  I 


II, 

Oh !  Southern  cheeks  are  quick  to  feel 
The  magic  finger  of  the  frost ; 
And  Mildred  heard  but  one  long  peal 
From  the  fierce  Arctic,  which  embossed 
Her  window-panes,  and  set  the  seal 

Of  cold  on  all  her  eye  beheld, 

When  through  her  veins  there  swept  new  fire, 

A 
And,  in  her  answering  bosom,  swelled 

New  purposes  and  new  desire, 
And  force  to  higher  deeds  impelled. 


126  The  Mistress  of  the  Manse. 

Ah!  well  for  her  the  languor  cast 
That  followed  from  her  Southern  clime ! 
The  time  would  come — was  coming  fast,- 
Love's  consummated,  crowning  time — • 
Of  which  her  heart  had  antepast ! 


A  strange  new  life  was  in  her  breast ; 
Her  eyes  were  full  of  wondrous  dreams ; 
She  sailed  all  whiles  from  crest  to  crest 
Of  a  broad  ocean,  through  whose  gleams 
She  saw  an  island  wrapped  in  rest ! 


And  as  she  drove  across  the  sea, 

Toward  the  fair  port  that  fixed  her  gaze, 

/** 
Her  life  was  like  a  rosary,*' 

Whose  slowly  counted  beads  were  days 
Of  prayer  for  one  that  was  to  be ! 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse.  127 

in. 

Oh  roses,  roses !     Who  shall  sing 

The  beauty  of  the  flowers  of  God ! 

Or  thank  the  angel  from  whose  wing 

The  seeds  are  scattered  on  the  sod 

From  which  such  bloom  and  perfume  spring! 

Sure  they  have  heavenly  genesis 
Which  make  a  heaven  of  every  place ; 
Which  company  our  bale  and  bliss, 
And  never  to  our  sinning  race 
Speak  aught  unhallowed,  or  amiss ! 

When  love  is  grieved,  their  buds  atone ; 
When  love  is  wed,  their  forms  are  near ; 
They  blend  their  breathing  with  the  moan 
Of  love  when  dying,  and  the  bier 
Is  white  with  them  in  every  zone. 


128  The  Mistress  of  the  Manse. 

No  spot  is  mean  that  they  begem  ; 
No  nosegay  fair  that  holds  them  not ; 
They  melt  the  pride  and  stir  the  phlegm 
Of  lord  and  churl,  in  court  and  cot, 
And  weave  a  common  diadem 


For  human  brows  where'er  they  grow. 

They  write  all  languages  of  red, 

They  speak  all  dialects  of  snow, 

And  all  the  words  of  gold  are  said 

With  fragrant  meanings  where  they  blowi 


Oh  sweetest  flowers  !     Oh  flowers  divine ! 
In  which  God  comes  so  closely  down, 
We  gather  from  his  chosen  sign 
The  tints  that  cluster  in  his  crown — 
The  perfume  of  his  breath  benign  t 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse.  129 

Oh,  sweetest  flowers !     Oh,  flowers  that  hold 

The  fragrant  life  of  Paradise 

For  a  brief  day,  shut  fold  in  fold, 

That  we  may  drink  it  in  a  trice, 

And  drop  the  empty  pink  and  gold ! 

Oh  sweetest  flowers,  that  have  a  breath 
For  every  passion  that  we  feel ! 
That  tell  us  what  the  Master  saith 
Of  blessing,  in  our  woe  and  weal, 
And  all  events  of  life  and  death ! 


IV. 

The  time  of  roses  came  again ; 
And  one  had  bloomed  within  the  manse,—- 
Bloomed  in  a  burst  of  midnight  pain, 
And  plumed  its  life  in  fair  expanse, 

Beneath  love's  nursing  sun  and  rain. 
6* 


130  The  Mistress  of  the  Manse. 

Such  tendance  ne'er  had  flower  before  t 
Such  beauty  ne'er  had  flower  returned ! 
Found  on  that  distant  island-shore, 
Whose  secret  she  at  last  had  learned, 
And  made  her  own  for  evermore, 


Mildred  consigned  it  to  her  breast ; 
And  though  she  knew  it  took  its  hue 
From  her,  it  seemed  the  Lord's  bequest,- 
Still  sparkling  with  the  heavenly  dew, 
And  still  with  heavenly  beauty  dressed. 


Oh,  roses !  ye  were  wondrous  fair 

That  summer  by  the  river  side ! 

For  hearts  were  blooming  everywhere, 

In  sympathy  of  love  and  pride, 

With  that  which  came  to  Mildred's  care. 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse.  131 

And  rose  as  red  as  rose  could  be 
Was  Philip's  heart  with  joy  abloom, 
That  cast  its  fragrance  far  and  free, 
And  filled  his  lonely,  silent  room 
With  rapture  of  paternity  ! 


The  evening  fell  on  field  and  street ; 

The  glow-worm  lit  his  phosphor  lamp, 

For  fairy  forms  and  fairy  feet, 

That  gathered  for  their  nightly  tramp 

Where  grass  was  green  and  flowers  were  sweet 

In  devious  circles,  round  and  round, 
The  night-hawk  coursed  the  twilight  sky, 
Or  shot  like  lightning  the  profound, 
With  breezy  thunder  in  the  cry 
That  marked  his  furious  rebound  I 


132  The  Mistress  of  the  Afansc. 

The  zephyrs  breathed  through  elm  and  ash, 
From  new-mown  hay  and  heliotrope, 
And  came  through  Philip's  open  sash 
With  sheen  of  stars  that  lit  the  cope, 
And  twinkling  of  the  fire-fly's  flash. 


He  heard  the  baby's  weary  plaint ; 
He  heard  the  mother's  soothing  words  ; 
And  sitting  in  his  hushed  restraint, 
One  voice  was  murmur  of  the  birds, 
And  one  the  hymning  of  a  saint ! 


And  as  he  sat  alone,  immersed 

In  the  fond  fancies  of  the  time, 

Her  voice  in  mellow  music  burst, 

And  by  a  rhythmic  stair  of  rhyme 

Led  down  to  sleep  the  child  she  nursed. 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse.  133 

''  Rockaby,  lullaby,  bees  on  the  clover! — 
Crooning  so  drowsily,  crying  so  low — 
Rockaby,  lullaby,  dear  little  rover ! 
Down  into  wonderland — 
Down  to  the  under-land — 

Go,  oh  go  ! 
Down  into  wonderland  go ! 

"  Rockaby,  lullaby,  rain  on  the  clover  ! 
Tears  on  the  eyelids  that  struggle  and  weep ! 
Rockaby,  lullaby — bending  it  over  ! 
Down  on  the  mother  world, 
Down  on  the  other  world  I 

Sleep,  oh  sleep ! 
Down  on  the  mother-world  sleep  I 

"Rockaby,  lullaby,  dew  on  the  clover! 
Dew  on  the  eyes  that  will  sparkle  at  dawn ! 
Rockaby,  lullaby,  dear  little  rover  ! 


134  The  Mistress  of  the  Manse. 

Into  the  stilly  world ! 
Into  the  lily  world, 
Gone !   oh  gone ! 
Into  the  lily  world,  gone !  " 


VI. 

They  sprouted  like  the  prophet's  gourd  ; 
They  grew  within  a  single  night ; 
So  swift  his  busy  years  were  scored 
That,  ere  he  knew,  his  hope  was  white 
With  harvest  bending  round  his  board ! 


And  eyes  were  black  and  eyes  were  blue, 
And  blood  of  mother  and  of  sire, 
Each  to  its  native  humor  true, 
Blent  Northern  force  with  Southern  fire 
In  strength  and  beauty,  strange  and  new. 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse.  135 

The  Gallic  brown,  the  Saxon  snow, 
The  raven  locks,  the  flaxen  curls, 
Were  so  commingled  in  the  flow 
Of  the  new  blood  of  boys  and  girls, 
That  Puritan  and  Huguenot 


In  love's  alembic  were  advanced 

To  higher  types  and  finer  forms ; 

And  ardent  humors  thrilled  and  danced 

Through  veins  that  tempered  all  their  storms, 

Or  held  them  in  restraint  entranced. 


Oh !  many  times,  as  flew  the  years, 
The  dainty  cradle-song  was  sung ; 
And  bore  its  balm  to  restless  ears, 
As  one  by  one  the  nested  young 
Slept  in  their  willows  and  their  tears. 


136  The  Mistress  of  the  Manse. 

To  each  within  the  reedy  glade, 

Hid  from  some  tyrant's  cruel  schemes, 

It  was  a  princess,  or  her  maid, 

Who  bore  him  to  the  realm  of  dreams, 

And  made  him  seer  by  accolade 

Of  naming  bush  and  parted  deep, 
Of  gushing  rocks  and  raining  corn, 
And  fire  and  cloud,  and  lengthened  sweep 
Of  thousands  toward  the  promised  morn, 
Across  the  wilderness  of  sleep ! 


VII. 

The  years  rolled  on  in  grand  routine 

Of  useful  toil  and  chastening  care, 

Till  Philip,  grown  to  heights  serene 

Of  conscious  power,  and  ripe  with  prayer, 

Took  on  the  strong  and  stately  mien 


7 he  Mistress  of  the  Manse.  137 

Of  one  on  whom  had  been  conferred 
The  doing  of  a  knightly  deed ; 
And  waited  till  it  bade  him  gird 
The  harness  on  him  and  his  steed, 
For  man  and  for  his  Master's  word. 


His  name  was  spoken  far  and  near, 
And  sounded  sweet  on  every  tongue ; 
Men  knew  him  only  to  revere, 
And  those  who  knew  him  nearest,  flung 
Their  hearts  before  his  grand  career, 


And  paved  his  way  with  loyal  trust. 
He  was  their  strongest,  noblest  man,— 
Sworn  foe  of  every  selfish  lust, 
And  brave  to  do  as  wise  to  plan, 
And  swift  to  judge  as  pure  and  just. 


138  The  Mistress  of  the  Manse. 

VIII. 

Against  such  foil  the  mistress  stood— 
A  pearl  upon  a  cross  of  gold — 
White  with  consistent  womanhood, 
And  fixed  with  unrelaxing  hold 
Upon  the  centre  of  the  rood ! 

Through  all  those  years  of  loving  thrift, 
Nor  blame  nor  discord  marred  their  lot; 
Each  to  the  lover-life  was  gift ; 
And  each  was  free  from  blur  or  blot 
That  called  for  silence  or  for  shrift 

Both  bore  the  burden  they  upheld 

With  patient  hands  along  the  road ; 

And  though,  with  passing  years,  it  swelled 

Until  it  grew  a  weary  load, 

Nor  tongue  complained,  nor  heart  rebelled. 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse.  139 

At  length  the  time  of  trial  came, 
And  they  were  tried  as  gold  is  tried. 
Their  peace  of  life  went  up  in  flame, 
And  what  was  good  was  vilified, 
And  what  was  blameless  came  to  blame. 


IX. 

The  Southern  sky  was  dun  with  cloud ; 
And  looming  lurid  o'er  its  edge 
The  brows  of  awful  forms  were  bowed, 
That  forged  in  flame  the  fateful  wedge 
Which  waited  in  the  angry  shroud. 

The  banner  of  the  storm  unfurled, 

And  all  the  powers  of  death  arrayed 

In  black  battalions,  to  be  hurled 

Down  through  the  rack — a  blazing  blade — 

To  cleave  the  realm,  and  shake  the  world! 


140  The  Mistress  of  the  Manse. 

The  North  was  full  of  nameless  dread ; 
Wild  portents  flamed  from  out  the  pole  ; 
Old  scars  on  Freedom's  bosom  bled, 
And  sick  at  heart  and  vexed  of  soul 
She  tossed  in  fever  on  her  bed ! 


Pale  Commerce  hid  her  face  and  whined  ; 

The  arms  of  Toil  were  paralyzed ; 

The  wise  were  of  divided  mind, 

And  they  who  counselled  and  advised 

Were  sightless  leaders  of  the  blind. 


Men  lost  their  faith  in  good  and  great ; 
No  captain  sprang,  or  prophet-bard, 
To  win  their  trust,  and  save  the  state 
From  the  wild  storm  that,  like  a  pard, 
On  quivering  haunches  lay  in  wait! 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse.  141 

The  loyal  only  were  not  brave ; 
E'en  Peace  became  a  cringing  dog; 
The  patriot  paltered  like  a  knave, 
And  partisan  and  demagogue 
Quarrelled  o'er  Freedom's  waiting  grave. 


x. 

Amid  the  turmoil  and  disgrace, 

The  voice  was  clear,  from  first  to  last, 

Of  one  who,  in  the  desert  place 

Of  barren  counsels,  held  him  fast 

His  shepherd's  crook,  and  made  it  mace 

To  bear  before  the  Great  Event 
Whose  harbinger  he  chose  to  be, 
And  called  on  all  men  to  repent, 
And  build  a  way  from  sea  to  sea, 
For  Freedom's  full  enfranchisement. 


142  The  Mistress  of  the  Manse. 

For  Philip,  to  his  conscience  leal, 
Conceived  that  God  had  chosen  him 
With  Treason's  sophistries  to  deal, 
And  grapple  with  the  Anakim 
Whose  menace  shook  the  commonweal. 


His  pulpit  smoked  beneath  his  blows  ; 
His  voice  was  heard  in  hall  and  street ; 
A  thousand  friends  became  his  foes, 
And  pews  were  empty  or  replete, 
With  passion's  ebbs  and  overflows. 


They  trailed  his  good  name  in  the  mire ; 
They  spat  their  venom  in  his  eyes ; 
They  taunted  him  with  mad  desire 
For  power,  and  gathered  his  replies 
In  braver  words  and  fiercer  fire. 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse.  143 

He  was  a  wolf,  disguised  in  wool ; 
He  was  a  viper  in  the  breast  ; 
He  was  a  villain,  or  the  tool 
Of  greater  villains  ;   at  the  best, 
A  blind  enthusiast  and  fool ! 

As  swelled  the  tempest,  rose  the  man; 
He  turned  to  sport  their  brutal  spleen  ; 
And  none  could  choose  be  slow  to  span 
The  difference  that  lay  between 
A  Prospero  and  a  Caliban ! 


XI. 

She  would  not  move  him  otherwise, 
Although  her  heart  was  sad  and  sore. 
That  which  was  venal  in  his  eyes 
To  her  a  lovely  aspect  wore, 
And  helped  to  weave  the  thousand  ties 


144  The  Mistress  of  the  Manse. 

Which  bound  her  to  her  youth,  and  all 
The  loves  that  she  had  left  behind 
When,  from  her  father's  stately  hall, 
She  came,  her  Northern  home  to  find, 
With  him  who  held  her  heart  in  thrall. 


In  the  dark  pictures  which  he  drew 
Of  instituted  shame  and  wrong, 
She  saw  no  figures  that  she  knew, 
But  a  confused  and  hateful  throng 
Of  forms  that  in  his  fancy  grew. 


Her  father's  rule,  benign  and  mild, 
Was  all  of  slavery  she  had  known ; 
To  her,  an  Afric  was  a  child — 
A  charge  in  other  ages  thrown 
On  Christian  honor,  from  the  wild 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse.  145 

Of  savagery  in  which  the  Fates 

Had  given  him  birth  and  dwelling-place— 

And  so,  descending  through  estates 

Of  gentle  vassalage,  his  race 

Had  come  to  men  of  later  dates. 


Black  hands  her  baby  form  had  dressed ; 
Black  hands  her  blacker  hair  had  curled  ; 
And  she  had  found  a  dusky  breast 
The  sweetest  breast  in  all  the  world 
When  she  was  thirsty  or  at  rest. 


There  was  no  touch  of  memory's  chords-^ 

No  picture  on  her  blooming  wall, — 

Of  life  upon  the  sunny  swards 

They  reproduced, — but  brought  recall 

Of  happy  slaves  and  gentle  lords. 
7 


146  The  Mistress  of  the  Manse, 

And  Philip  charged  a  deadly  sin 
Upon  that  beautiful  domain, 
Condemning  all  who  dwelt  therein, 
And  branding  with  the  awful  stain 
Her  friends,  and  all  her  dearest  kin. 


Yet  still  she  knew  his  conscience  clear,- 
That  he  believed  his  voice  was  God's ; 
And  listened  with  a  voiceless  fear 
To  the  portentous  periods 
In  which  he  preached  the  chosen  year 


Of  expiation  and  release, 
And  prophesied  that  Slavery's  power, 
Grown  great  apace  with  crime's  increase, 
Before  the  front  of  Right  should  cower, 
And  bid  God's  people  go  in  peace ! 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse.  147 

XII. 

The  fierce  invectives  of  his  tongue 
Frayed  every  day  her  wounds  afresh, 
And  with  new  pain  her  bosom  wrung, 
For  they  envenomed  kindred  flesh, 
To  which  in  sympathy  she  clung. 

Yet  not  a  finger  did  she  lift 
To  hold  him  from  his  fateful  task, 
Though  Satan  oft  essayed  to  sift 
Her  soul  as  wheat,  and  bade  her  ask 
Somewhat  from  conscience  as  a  gift. 

And  when  a  serpent  in  his  slime 

Crept  to  her  ear  with  phrase  polite, 

Prating  of  duty  to  her  time 

And  to  her  people — swift  and  white 

She  turned  and  cursed  him  for  his  crime! 


148  The  Mistress  of  the  Manse. 

She  would  have  naught  of  all  the  brood 
Of  temporizing,  drivelling  shows 
Of  men  who  Philip's  words  withstood  : 
Against  them  all  her  love  uprose, 
And  all  her  pride  of  womanhood. 


She  loved  her  kindred  none  the  less, 
She  loved  her  husband  still  the  more, 
For  well  she  knew  that  with  distress 
He  saw  the  heavy  cross  she  bore 
With  steadfast  faith  and  tenderness. 


No  strife  of  jarring  policies, 
No  conflict  of  embittered  states, 
No  chart,  defining  by  degrees 
Of  latitude  her  country's  hates, 
Could  change  her  friends  to  enemies. 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse.  149 

The  motives  ranged  on  either  hand, 
Behind  the  war  of  word  and  will, 
Were  such  as  she  could  understand 
And,  with  respect  to  all,  fulfil 
Love's  broad  and  beautiful  command. 

So,  with  all  questions  hushed  to  sleep, 
And  all  opinions  put  aside, 
She  gave  her  loved  ones  to  the  keep 
Of  God,  whatever  should  betide, 
To  bear  her  joy  or  bid  her  weep ! 


XIII. 

Though  Philip  knew  he  wounded  her, 
His  faith  to  God  and  faith  to  man 
Bade  him  go  forward,  and  incur 
Such  cost  as,  since  the  world  began, 
Has  burdened  Freedom's  harbinger. 


z  50  The  Mistress  of  the  Manse. 

No  heart  or  hand  was  his  to  flinch 
From  ease  or  reputation  lost ; 
Nor  waste  of  gold,  nor  hunger-pinch, 
Nor  e'en  his  home's  black  holocaust, 
Could  stay  his  arm.     Though  inch  by  inch, 

The  maddened  hosts  of  scorn  and  scath 
Should  crowd  him  backward  to  defeat, 
He  would  but  strive  with  sterner  wrath, 
And  bless  the  hand  that,  soft  and  sweet, 
Withheld  its  hinderance  from  his  path! 


XIV. 

Still  darker  loomed  the  Southern  cloud, 
While  o'er  its  black  and  billowed  face 
In  furrowed  fire  the  lightning  ploughed, 
And  ramping  from  his  hiding-place 
Roared  the  wild  Thunder,  fierce  and  loud  I 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse.  151 

And  still  men  chattered  of  their  trade, 
And  strove  to  banish  their  alarms ; 
And  some  were  puzzled,  some  afraid, 
And  some  held  up  their  feeble  arms 
In  indignation  while  they  prayed ! 


And  others  weakly  talked  of  schism 
As  boon  of  God  in  place  of  war, 
And  bared  their  foreheads  for  its  chrism  1 
While  direr  than  the  mace  of  Thor, 
In  mid-air  hung  the  cataclysm 


Which  waited  but  some  chance,  or  act, 

To  shiver  the  electric  spell, 

And  pour  in  one  fierce  cataract 

A  rain  of  blood  and  fire  of  hell 

On  Freedom's  temple  spoiled  and  sacked. 


1 52  The  Mistress  of  the  Manse, 

The  politician  plied  his  craft ; 

The  demagogue  still  schemed  and  lied ; 

The  patriot  wept,  the  traitor  laughed ; 

The  coward  to  his  covert  hied, 

And  statesmen  went  distract  or  daft. 

Contention  raged  in  Senate  halls ; 
Confusion  reigned  in  field  and  town  ; 
High  conclaves  flattened  into  brawls, 
And  till  and  hammer,  smock  and  gown, 
Nor  duty  knew  nor  heard  its  calls ! 


XV. 

At  last,  incontinent  of  fire, 

The  cloud  of  menace  belched  its  brand; 

And  every  state  and  every  shire 

And  town  and  hamlet  in  the  land, 

Shook  with  the  smiting  of  its  ire ! 


The  Mistress  of  tlie  Manse.  153 

Men  looked  each  other  in  the  eyes, 

And  beat  their  burning  breasts  and  curse6  I 

At  last  the  silliest  were  wise  ; 

And  swift  to  flash  and  thunder-burst 

Fashioned  in  anger  their  replies. 


The  smoke  of  Sumter  filled  the  air. 
Men  breathed  it  in  in  one  long  breath  ; 
And  straight  upspringing  everywhere, 
Life  burgeoned  on  the  mounds  of  death, 
And  bloomed  in  valleys  of  despair. 


The  fire  of  Sumter,  fierce  and  hot, 
Welded  their  purpose  into  one  ; 
And  discord  hushed,  and  strife  forgot, 
They  swore  that  what  had  thus  begun 

With  sacrilegious  cannon-shot, 
7* 


1 54  The  Mistress  of  the  Manse. 

Should  find  in  analogue  of  flame 

Such  answer  of  the  nation's  host, 

That  the  old  flag,  washed  clean  from  shame 

In  blood,  should  wave  from  coast  to  coast, 

Over  one  realm  in  heart  and  name  I 


XVI. 

Pale  doubters,  scourged  by  countless  whips, 
Fled  to  their  refuge,  or  obeyed 
The  motives  and  the  masterships 
That  time  and  circumstance  betrayed 
Through  Patriotism's  apocalypse, 

And,  sympathetic  with  the  spasm 

Of  loyal  life  that  thrilled  the  clime, 

Lost  in  the  swift  enthusiasm 

The  loose  intention  of  their  crime  ; 

Then  leaped  in  swarms  the  awful  chasm 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse.  155 

That  held  them  parted  from  the  mass. 
The  North  was  one  in  heart  and  thought, 
And  that  which  could  not  come  to  pass 
Through  loyal  eloquence,  was  wrought 
By  one  hot  word  from  lips  of  brass ! 


XVII. 

The  cry  sprang  upward  and  sped  on : 
"To  arms!  for  freedom  and  the  flagl" 
And  swift,  from  Maine  to  Oregon, 
O'er  glebe  and  lake  and  mountain-crag, 
Hurtled  the  fierce  Euroclydon. 

Men  dropped  their  mallets  on  the  bench, 
Forsook  their  ploughs  on  hill  and  plain, 
And  tore  themselves,  with  piteous  wrench 
Of  heart  and  hope,  from  love  and  gain, 
And  trooped  in  throngs  to  tent  and  trench. 


1 56  The  Mistress  of  the  Manse. 

"To  arms!"  and  Philip  heard  the  cry. 
Not  his  the  valor  cheap  and  small 
To  bluster  with  brave  phrase,  and  fly 
When  trumpet  blare  and  rifle-ball 
Proclaimed  the  time  for  words  gone  by ! 


Men  knew  their  chieftain.     He  had  borne 
Their  insolence  through  struggling  years, 
And  they — the  dastards,  the  forsworn — 
Who  had  ransacked  the  hemispheres 
For  instruments  to  wreak  their  scorn 


On  him  and  all  of  kindred  speech, 
Gathered  around  him  with  his  friends, 
And  with  stern  plaudits  heard  him  preach 
A  gospel  whose  stupendous  ends 
Their  marxyred  blood  could  only  reach. 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse.  157 

They  gave  him  honor  far  and  wide, 
As  one  who  backed  his  word  by  deed ; 
And  he  whose  task  had  been  to  guide, 
Was  chosen  by  acclaim  to  lead 
The  men  who  gathered  at  his  side. 

The  crook  was  banished  for  the  glave ; 
The  churchman's  black  for  soldier-blue; 
The  man  of  peace  became  a  brave ; 
And,  in  the  dawn  of  conflict,  drew 
His  sword  his  country's  life  to  save. 


XIX. 

They  came  from  mead  and  mountain-top ; 
They  came  from  factory  and  forge  ; 
And  one  by  one,  from  farm  and  shop — • 
Still  gravel  to  the  Northman's  gorge — 
Followed  the  servile  Ethiop. 


158  The  Mistress  of  the  Manse. 

Gaunt,  grimy  men,  whose  ways  had  been 
Among  the  shadows  and  the  slums, 
With  pedagogue  and  paladin, 
Rushed,  at  the  rolling  of  the  drums, 
To  Philip,  and  were  mustered  in ! 


The  beat  of  drum  and  scream  of  fife, 
Commingling  with  the  thundering  tramp 
Of  trooping  throngs,  so  changed  the  life 
Of  the  calm  village  that  the  camp, 
And  what  it  prophesied  of  strife, 


And  hap  of  loss  and  hap  of  gain, 
Became  of  every  tongue  the  theme ; 
Till  burning  heart  and  throbbing  brain 
Could  waking  think,  and  sleeping  dream, 
Of  naught  but  battles  and  the  slain. 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse.  1 59 

xx. 

With  eager  eyes  and  helpful  hands 
The  women  met  in  solemn  crowds, 
And  shred  the  linen  into  bands 
That  had  been  better  saved  for  shrouds, 
Or  want's  imperious  demands. 

And  with  them  all  sad  Mildred  walked, 
The  bearer  of  a  heavy  cross ; 
For  at  her  side  the  phantom  stalked — 
Nor  left  her  for  an  hour — of  loss 
Which  by  no  fortune  might  be  balked. 

For  one  or  all  she  loved  must  fall ; 
One  cause  must  perish  in  defeat ; 
Success  of  either  would  appall, 
And  victory,  however  sweet 
To  others,  would  to  her  be  gall. 


160  The  Mistress  of  the  Manse. 

To  each,  with  equal  heart  allied, 
Her  love  was  like  the  love  of  God, 
That  wraps  the  country  in  its  tide, 
And  o'er  its  hosts,  benign  and  broad, 
Broods  with  its  pity  and  its  pride ! 


A  thousand  chances  of  the  feud 

She  wove  and  ravelled  one  by  one, — 

Of  hands  in  kindred  blood  imbrued, — 

Of  father,  face  to  face  with  son, 

And  friends  turned  foemen  fierce  and  rude. 


And  in  her  dreams  two  forms  were  met, 

Of  friends  as  leal  as  ever  breathed — 

Her  husband  and  her  brother — wet 

With  priceless  blood  from  swords  ensheathed 

In  hearts  that  loved  each  other  yet ! 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse.  161 

But  itching  ears  her  language  scanned, 
And  jealous  eyes  were  on  her  steps ; 
And  fancies  into  rumors  fanned 
By  loyal  shrews  and  demireps 
Proclaimed  her  traitress  to  the  land. 

They  knew  her  blood,  but  could  not  know 
That  mighty  passion  of  her  heart 
Which,  reaching  widely  in  its  woe, 
Grasped  all  she  loved  on  either  part, 
And  could  not,  would  not  let  it  go ! 


XXI. 

The  time  of  gathering  came  and  went — • 
Of  noisy  zeal  and  hasty  drill — 
And  everywhere,  in  field  and  tent, — 
A  constant  presence, — Philip's  will 
Moulded  the  callow  regiment. 


1 62  The  Mistress  of  the  Manse. 

And  then  there  fell  a  gala  day, 
When  all  the  mighty,  motley  swarm 
Appeared  in  beautiful  display 
Of  burnished  arms  and  uniform, 
And  gloried  in  their  brave  array ! — 


And,  later  still,  the  hour  of  dread 
To  all  the  simple  country  round, 
When  forth,  with  Philip  at  their  head, 
They  marched  from  the  familiar  ground, 
And  drained  its  life,  and  left  it  dead  ; — 


Dead  but  for  those  who  pined  with  grief; 
Dead  but  for  fears  that  could  not  die  ; 
Dead  as  the  world  when  flower  and  leaf 
Are  still  beneath  a  gathering  sky, 
And  ocean  sleeps  on  reach  and  reef. 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse.  163 

The  weary  waiting  time  had  come, 
When  only  apprehension  waked ; 
And  lonely  wives  sat  chill  and  dumb 
Among  their  broods,  with  hearts  that  ached 
And  echoed  the  retreating  drum. 


Teachers  forgot  to  preach  their  creeds, 
And  trade  forsook  its  merchandise  ; 
The  fallow  fields  grew  rank  with  weeds, 
And  none  had  interest  or  eyes 
For  aught  but  war's  ensanguined  deeds. 


As  one  who  lingered  by  a  bier 
Where  all  she  loved  lay  dead  and  cold, 
Sad  Mildred  sat  without  a  tear, 
Living  again  the  days  of  old, 
Or,  with  the  vision  of  a  seer, 


1 64  The  Mistress  of  the  Manse. 

Forecasting  the  disastrous  end. 
Whate'er  might  come,  she  did  not  dare 
Believe  that  fortune  would  defend 
The  noble  life  she  could  not  spare, 
And  save  her  lover  and  her  friend. 


Her  blooming  girls  and  stalwart  boys 
Could  never  comprehend  the  woe 
Which  dropped  its  measure  of  their  joys, 
And  felt  but  horror  in  the  show, 
And  heard  but  murder  in  the  noise, 


And  dreamed  of  death  when  stillness  fell 
Behind  the  gay  and  shouting  corps. 
They  saw  her  haunted  by  the  spell 
Of  a  great  sorrow,  and  forebore 
To  question  griefs  they  could  not  quell. 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse.  165 

Small  time  she  gave  to  vain  regret ; 

Brief  space  to  thought  of  that  adieu 

Which  crushed  her  breast,  when  last  they  met, 

And  in  love's  baptism  bathed  anew 

Cheeks,  lips,  and  eyes,  and  left  them  wetl 

In  deeds  of  sympathy  and  grace, 
She  moved  among  the  homes  forlorn, 
Alike  to  beautiful  and  base 
And  to  the  stricken  and  the  shorn, 
The  guardian  angel  of  the  place. 


XXII. 

Oh  piteous  waste  of  hopes  and  fears ! 
Oh  cruel  stretch  of  long  delay ! 
Oh  homes  bereft !    Oh  useless  tears  ! 
Oh  war !    that  ravened  on  its  prey 
Through  Pain's  immeasurable  years! 


166  The  Mistress  of  the  Manse. 

The  town  was  mourning  for  its  dead ; 
The  streets  were  black  with  widowhood ; 
While  orphaned  children  begged  for  bread, 
And  Rachel,  for  the  brave  and  good, 
Mourned,  and  would  not  be  comforted. 


The  regiment  that,  straight  and  crisp, 
Shone  like  a  wheat-field  in  the  sun, 
Its  swift  voice  deafened  to  a  lisp, 
Fell,  ere  the  war  was  well  begun, 
And  waned  and  withered  to  a  wisp. 


And  Philip,  grown  to  higher  rank, 
Crowned  with  the  bays  of  splendid  deeds 
Of  the  full  cup  of  glory  drank, 
And  lived,  though  all  his  reeking  steeds 
In  the  red  front  of  conflict  sank. 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse.  167 

The  star  of  conquest  waxed  or  waned, 
Yet  still  the  call  came  back  for  men ; 
Still  the  lamenting  town  was  drained, 

n 

And  still  again,  and  still  again, 
Till  only  impotence  remained ! 


XXIII. 

There  came  at  length  an  eve  of  gloom — 
Dread  Gettysburg's  eventful  eve — 
When  all  the  gathering  clouds  of  doom 
Hung  low,  the  breathless  air  to  cleave 
With  scream  of  shell  and  cannon-boom ! 

Man  knew  too  well,  and  woman  felt 
That  when  the  next  wild  morn  should  rise, 
A  blow  of  battle  would  be  dealt 
Before  whose  fire  ten  thousand  eyes — 
As  in  a  furnace  flame — would  melt. 


1 68  The  Mistress  of  the  Manse. 

And  on  this  eve — her  flock  asleep — 
Knelt  Mildred  at  her  lonely  bed. 
She  could  not  pray,  she  did  not  weep, 
But  only  moaned,  and,  moaning,  said  : 
"Oh  God!   he  sows  what  I  must  reap! 


"  He  will  not  live :  he  must  not  die ! 
But  oh,  my  poor,  prophetic  heart! 
It  warns  me  that  there  lingers  nigh 
The  hour  when  love  and  I  must  part ! " 
And  then  she  startled  with  a  cry, 


For,  from  beneath  her  lattice,  came 
A  low  and  once  repeated  call ! 
She  knew  the  voice  that  spoke  her  name, 
And  swiftly  through  the  midnight  hall 
She  fluttered  noiseless  as  a  flame, 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse.  169 

And  on  its  unresisting  hinge 
Threw  wide  her  hospitable  door, 
To  one  whose  spirit  could  not  cringe 
Though  he  was  shelterless,  and  bore 
No  right  her  freedom  to  infringe. 


She  wildly  clasped  his  neck  of  bronze  ; 
She  rained  her  kisses  on  his  face, 
Grown  tawny  with  a  thousand  suns, 
And  holding  him  in  her  embrace, 
She  led  him  to  her  little  ones, 


Who,  reckless  of  his  coming,  slept. 
Then  down  the  stair  with  silent  feet 
And  through  the  shadowy  hall  she  swept, 
And  saw,  between  her  and  the  street, 

A  form  that  into  darkness  crept. 
8 


170  The  Mistress  of  the  Manse. 

She  closed  the  door  with  speechless  dread ; 
She  fixed  the  bolt  with  trembling  hand; 
Then  led  the  rebel  to  his  bed, 
Whom  love  and  safety  had  unmanned, 
And  left  him  less  alive  than  dead. 

Through  nights  and  days  of  fear  and  grief, 
She  kept  her  faithful  watch  and  ward, 
But  love  and  rest  brought  no  relief; 
And  all  he  begged  for  of  his  Lord 
Was  death,  with  passion  faint  and  brief. 


XXIV. 

Around  the  house  were  prying  eyes, 
And  gossips  hiding  under  trees ; 
And  Mildred  heard  the  steps  of  spies 
At  midnight,  when,  upon  her  knees, 
She  sought  the  comfort  of  the  skies. 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse.  171 

Strange  voices  rose  upon  the  night ; 
Strange  errands  entered  at  the  gate ; 
Her  hours  were  months  of  pale  affright ; 
Though  still  her  prisoner  of  state 
Was  shielded  from  their  eager  sight. 

And  there  were  hirelings  in  pursuit, 
Who  thirsted  for  his  golden  price ; 
And,  swift  allied  with  pimp  and  brute, 
And  quick  to  purchase  and  entice, 
They  found  the  tree  that  held  their  fruit. 


XXV. 

The  day  of  Gettysburg  had  set ; 

The  smoke  had  drifted  from  the  scene, 

And  burnished  sword  and  bayonet 

Lay  rusting  where,  but  yestere'en, 

They  dropped  with  life-blood  red  and  wetl 


\  The  Mistress  of  the  Manse. 

The  swift  invader  had  retraced 

His  march,  and  left  his  fallen  braves, 

Covered  at  night  in  voiceless  haste, 

To  sleep  in  memorable  graves, 

But  knew  that  all  his  loss  was  waste. 


The  nation's  legions,  stretching  wide, 
Too  sore  to  chase,  too  weak  to  cheer, 
Gave  sepulture  to  those  who  died, 
And  saw  their  foemen  disappear 
Without  the  loss  of  power  or  pride. 


And  then,  swift-sweeping  like  a  gale, 
Through  all  the  land,  from  end  to  end, 
Grief  poured  its  wild,  untempered  wail, 
And  father,  mother,  wife,  and  friend 
Forgot  their  country  in  their  bale. 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse.  173 

And  Philip,  with  his  fatal  wound, 
Was  borne  beyond  the  battle's  blaze, 
Across  the  torn  and  quaking  ground, 
His  ear  too  dull  to  heed  the  praise, 
That  spoke  him  hero,  robed  and  crowned. 


They  bent  above  his  blackened  face, 

And  questioned  of  his  last  desire  ; 

And  with  his  old,  familiar  grace, 

And  smiling  mouth,  and  eye  of  fire, 

He  answered  them  :    "  My  wife's  embrace  !  " 


They  wiped  his  forehead  of  its  stain, 

They  bore  him  tenderly  away, 

Through  teeming  mart  and  wide  champaign, 

Till  on  a  twilight,  cool  and  gray, 

And  wet  with  weeping  of  the  rain, 


174  The  Mistress  of  the  Manse. 

They  gave  him  to  a  silent  crowd 

That  waited  at  the  river's  marge, 

Of  men  with  age  and  sorrow  bowed, 

Who  raised  and  bore  their  precious  charge, 

Through  groups  that  watched  and  wailed  aloud. 


XXVI. 

The  hounds  of  power  were  at  her  gate  ; 
And  at  their  heels,  a  yelping  pack 
Of  graceless  mongrels  stood  in  wait, 
To  mark  the  issue  of  attack, 
With  lips  that  slavered  with  their  hate. 

With  window  raised  and  portal  barred, 
The  mistress  scanned  the  darkening  space, 
And  with  a  visage  hot  and  hard — 
At  bay  before  the  cruel  chase — 
She  held  them  in  her  fierce  regard. 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse.  175 

"  What  would  ye — spies  and  hirelings — what?" 
She  asked  with  accent,  stern  and  brave  ; 

"  Why  come  ye  to  this  sacred  spot, 
Led  by  the  counsel  of  a  knave, 
And  flanked  by  slanderer  and  sot  ? 


"  You  have  my  husband  :   has  he  earned 
No  meed  of  courtesy  for  me  ? 
Is  this  the  recompense  returned, 
That  she  he  loved  the  best  should  be 
Suspected,  persecuted,  spurned  ? 


"  My  home  is  wrecked  :    what  would  ye  more  ? 
My  life  is  ruined — what  new  boon  ? 
My  children's  hearts  are  sad  and  sore 
With  weeping  for  the  wounds  that  soon 
Will  plead  for  healing  at  my  door  I 


176  The  Mistress  of  the  Manse. 

"  I  hold  your  prisoner — stand  assured  : 
Safe  from  his  foes  :  aye,  safe  from  you  f- 
Safe  in  a  sister's  love  immured, 
And  by  a  warden  kept  as  true 
As  e'er  the  test  of  faith  endured. 


Why,  men,  he  was  my  brother  born ! 
My  hero,  all  my  youthful  years ! 
My  counsellor,  to  guide  and  warn ! 
My  shield  alike  from  foes  and  fears ! 
And  when  he  came  to  me,  forlorn, 


"  What  could  I  do  but  hail  him  guest, 
And  bind  his  cruel  wounds  with  balm, 
And  give  him  on  his  sister's  breast 
That  which  he  asked,  the  humble  aim 
Of  a  safe  pillow  where  to  rest  ? 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse.  \^^ 

"Come,  then,  and  dare  the  wrath  of  fate! 
Come,  if  you  must,  or  if  you  will ! 
But  know  that  I  am  desperate  ; 
And  shafts  that  wound,  and  wounds  that  kill 
Your  deed  of  dastardy  await ! " 


A  murmur  swept  through  all  the  mob; 

The  base  informer  slunk  afar ; 

And  lusty  cheer  and  stifled  sob 

Rose  to  her  at  the  window-bar, 

While  those  whose  hands  were  come  to  rob 


Her  dwelling  of  its  treasure,  cursed; 
For  round  their  heads  the  menace  flew 
That  he  who  dared  adventure  first, 
Or  first  an  arm  of  murder  drew, 

Should  taste  of  vengeance  at  its  worst. 
8* 


178          The  Mistress  of  the  Manse. 

XXVII. 

A  heavy  tramp,  a  murmuring  sound, 
Low  mingling  with  the  murmuring  rain, — 
Heard  in  the  wind  and  in  the  ground, — 
Came  up  the  street — a  tide  of  pain, 
In  which  the  angry  din  was  drowned. 

The  leaders  of  the  tumult  fled ; 
The  door  flew  open  with  a  crash ; 
And  down  the  street  wild  Mildred  sped, 
Piercing  the  darkness  like  a  flash, 
And  walked  beside  her  husband's  bed. 

Slowly  the  solemn  train  advanced; 
The  crowd  fell  back  with  parted  ranks ; 
And  like  a  giant,  half  entranced, 
Sailing  between  strange,  spectral  banks, 
From  side  to  side  the  soldier  glanced. 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse.  179 

The  sobbing  rain,  the  evening  dim, 
The  dusky  forms  that  pushed  and  peered, 
The  swaying  couch,  the  aching  limb, 
The  lights  and  shadows,  sharp  and  weird, 
Were  but  a  troubled  dream  to  him. 


He  knew  his  love — all  else  unknown, 
Or  seen  through  reason's  sad  eclipse — 
And  with  her  hand  within  his  own, 
Or  fondly  pressed  upon  his  lips, 
He  clung  to  it,  as  if  alone 


It  had  the  power  to  stay  his  feet 
Yet  longer  on  the  verge  of  life ; 
And  thus  they  vanished  from  the  street- 
Trie  shepherd-warrior  and  his  wife — 
Within  the  manse's  closed  retreat. 


l8o  The  Mistress  of  the  Manse. 

XXVIII. 

Embraced  by  home,  his  soul  grew  light ; 
And  though  he  moaned:    "My  head!  my  head!' 
His  life  turned  back  its  outward  flight, 
Like  his,  who,  from  the  prophet's  bed, 
Startled  the  wondering  Shunammite. 

He  greeted  all  with  tender  speech; 
He  told  his  children  he  should  die  ; 
He  gave  his  fond  farewell  to  each, 
With  messages,  and  fond  good-by 
To  all  he  loved  beyond  his  reach. 

And  then  he  spoke  her  brother's  name  : 
"Tell  him,"  he  said,  "that,  in  my  death, 
I  cherished  his  untarnished  fame, 
And,  to  my  life's  expiring  breath, 
Held  his  brave  spirit  free  from  blame. 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse.  181 

We  strove  alike  for  truth's  behoof, 
With  honest  faith  and  love  sincere, — 
For  God  and  country,  right  and  roof, 
And  issues  that  do  not  appear, 
But  wait  with  Heaven  the  awful  proof." 


A  tottering  figure  reached  the  door  ; 
The  brother  fell  upon  the  bed, 
And,  in  each  other's  arms  once  more, 
With  breast  to  breast,  and  head  to  head,- 
Twin  barks,  they  drifted  from  the  shore ; 


And  backward  on  the  sobbing  air 
Came  the  same  words  from  warring  lips : 
"  God  save  my  country  !  "    and  the  prayer 
Still  wailing  from  the  drifting  ships, 
Returned  in  measures  of  despair ; 


182  The  Mistress  of  the 

Till  far,  at  the  horizon's  verge 
They  passed  beyond  the  tearful  eyes 
That  could  not  know  if  in  the  surge 
They  sank  at  last,  or  in  the  skies 
Forgot  the  burden  of  their  dirge ! 


XXIX. 

In  Northern  blue  and  Southern  brown, 
Twin  coffins  and  a  single  grave, 
They  laid  the  weary  warriors  down  ; 
And  hands  that  strove  to  slay  and  save 
Had  equal  rest  and  like  renown. 

For  in  the  graveyard's  hallowed  close 
A  woman's  love  made  neutral  soil, 
Where  it  might  lay  the  forms  of  those 
Who,  resting  from  their  fateful  broil, 
Had  ceased  forever  to  be  foes. 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse.  183 

To  her  and  those  who  clung  to  her — 
From  manly  eldest  down  to  least — 
The  obsequies,  the  sepulchre, 
The  chanting  choir,  the  weeping  priest, 
And  all  the  throng  and  all  the  stir 


Of  sympathetic  country-folk, 
And  all  the  signs  of  death  and  dole, 
Were  but  a  dream  that  beat  and  broke 
In  chilling  waves  on  heart  and  soul, 
Till  in  the  silence  they  awoke. 


She  was  a  widow,  and  she  wept ; 
She  was  a  mother,  and  she  smiled ; 
Her  faith  with  those  she  loved  was  kept, 
Though  still  the  war-cry,  fierce  and  wild, 
Around  the  harried  country  swept. 


1 84  The  Mistress  of  the  Manse. 

No  more  with  this  had  she  to  do ; 
God  and  her  little  ones  were  left ; 
And  unto  these,  serene  and  true, 
She  gave  the  life  so  soon  bereft 
Of  its  first  gifts,  and  rose  anew 


At  duty's  call  to  make  amends 
For  all  her  loss  of  loves  and  lands  ; 
And  found,  to  speed  her  noble  ends. 
The  succor  of  uplifting  hands, 
And  solace  of  a  thousand  friends. 


And  o'er  her  precious  graves  she  built 
A  stone  whereon  the  yellow  boss 
Of  sword  on  sword  with  naked  hilt 
Lay  as  the  symbol  of  her  cross, 
In  mournful  meaning,  carved  and  gilt 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse.  185 

And  underneath  were  graved  the  lines  I— 
THEY  DID  THE  DUTY  THAT  THEY  SAW; 

BOTH  WROUGHT  AT  GOD'S  SUPREME  DESIGNS 
AND,  UNDER  LOVE'S  ETERNAL  LAW, 
EACH  LIFE  WITH  EQUAL  BEAUTY  SHINES." 


XXX. 

Peace,  with  its  large  and  lilied  calms, 
Like  moonlight  sleeps  on  land  and  lake, 
With  healing  in  its  dewy  balms, 
For  pride  that  pines  and  hearts  that  ache, 
From  Huron  to  the  land  of  palms ! 

From  rock-bound  Massachusetts  Bay 
To  California's  Golden  Gate ; 
From  where  Itasca's  waters  play, 
To  those  which  plunge  or  palpitate 
A  thousand  happy  leagues  away. 


1 86  The  Mistress  of  the  Manse. 

And  drink,  among  her  dunes  and  bars, 
The  Mississippi's  boiling  tide, 
Still  floating  from  a  million  spars, 
The  nation's  ensign,  undefied, 
Blazons  its  galaxy  of  stars. 


No  more  to  party  strife  the  slave, 
And  freed  from  Hate's  infernal  spells, 
Love  pays  her  tribute  to  the  brave, 
And  snows  her  holy  immortelles 
O'er  friend  and  foe,  where'er  his  grave. 


On  every  Decoration  Day 

Each  pilgrim  to  her  hallowed  grounds 

Brings  tribute  of  a  flower  or  spray ; 

And  white-haired  Mildred  finds  her  mounds 

Decked  with  the  garnered  bloom  of  May. 


The  Mistress  of  the  Manse.  187 

And  Philip's  first-born,  strong  and  sage, 
(Through  Heaven's  design  or  happy  chance) 
Finds  the  old  church  his  heritage  ; 
And  still,  The  Mistress  of  the  Manse, 
Sits  Mildred,  in  her  silver  age ! 


END. 


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